Catch Up

Well,  it's been a few weeks. I know I ain't blogging like I was. But I'm trying to get this book off the ground, and between that and everybody going to the doctor forty-eleven times, I'm pretty worn out, plus sick of the computer.

Husband had himself some surgery. He looks like he was on the losing end of a knife fight. (Although he reassures me that if he had been a real knife fight, he would have won, of course.)

He had this teeny weeny spot above his lip removed. Now he has thirteen stitches, a bloody, swollen mouth (think duck bill) and a bruise running down his chin and under his neck. 

What he doesn't have (now) is cancer. This is good. Right now, it's just bad and ugly.

Of course, he's not been able to bend down or lift. He's milking it for all it's worth. He's developed this whine to his voice when he says my name that reminds me of a dentist's drill.

Mother, of course, had to have a run in with the hospital during all this. She'd been on antibiotics for a U.T.I. and it caused her to develop Ulcerative  Colitis. We had the joy of spending the entire night in the ER. But she is better now, at least for now.

Other Brother passed a kidney stone. I think he got an A+ for his effort, since the doctor said it couldn't be done.

I'm still in physical therapy for my tootsies. It seems to be helping!

We won a million dollars in the lottery. (Not really, just seeing if you are paying attention.)

Our car has to have a software update. Is that totally ridiculous, or what? 

Next step in the book process is to get a nice list in order as to how I want the book to flow.

And I'm still waiting on the CD to come back from being "pressed". Either it was really wrinkled or somebody in Nashville is listening to it over and over....or I'm in a long line at the press place.

Well, I guess that's it for now. If you think of something else, let me know.

Howdy

So, I know I haven't blogged in two weeks, which is unusual for me. 

There's been a lot going on, some of it not fun, so I won't focus on that.

But we had a great Thanksgiving, we have the Christmas decorations up and most of the  Christmas shopping done.

And, for the first time in my long life, I've been in a recording studio.

My next book, "Poetry, Prose and Music: Life of an Appalachian Woman" will have a little CD tucked in the back. Daughter does a solo and she and I did two duets on it. There are seven other songs on there, three of which yours truly wrote lyrics and  melody. 

Now it has to be "mixed", and I have to get busy unmixing the book. It's a real  mess, but at least it's contained between two pages of a notebook and in four folders on the computer. 

The notebook is sort of like scrambled eggs, though, and I have to devote a chunk of time putting it together.

This is a new endeavor for me, so it's taking up a bunch more time than a straight forward novel. 

Husband has set up a table for me to work off of, right next to the computer, so that will help. 

I hope.

Pardon me if I don't blog much for the next few weeks, but I'll keep ya posted. 

Hello!

Sorry I haven't checked in. But with hurricanes, septic tank collapse and whatnot, I've been pretty busy. 

The hurricane has passed, the septic tank fixed. Now I just have to get all this book stuff together.

You do want another book, don't you?

Hello?

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.

The Unexpected

The husband of an older couple we know asked me the other day if I liked to read. I said I was an avid reader. 

He told me he is getting rid of almost all his books, and if I wanted to come pick out some, let him know.

Husband and I went to their home today and brought back to our home two big boxes full of all sorts of books, and his book shelves were still full.

He says they are cleaning out stuff they don't need so it won't be a burden on their daughters.

The couple happen to be in their eighties.

He started showing me all the "stuff" they  have that no one will want, and just shook his head. 

I spied something that made my  heart skip a beat. "You've got a typewriter!" I exclaimed.

"Yep. Want it?"

Want it? WANT it? 

"Seriously?" I asked. This was too good to be true.

But he was serious. Husband carried it out to the car for me. 

Here are two of my innermost fears: If we were to go "off the grid", how would I be able to get to the library to steal   borrow books? And secondly, if computers and word processors no longer worked, how could I write books? My hands are in too bad a shape to write longhand.

Stop laughing at me!  I know we need food and stuff, too.

But now, I am the proud owner of a Royal manual typewriter. I'm going to Google ribbons for it and buy a bunch. Clean it up and  maybe even type on it a little.

Very little, because it's going to take a lot of arm strength to use it, but boy, oh, boy, what a surprise.

Felt a lot like  Christmas morning. 

No mail, man?

For the first time in years we received absolutely no mail yesterday. Not a scrap of sales paper, not a piece of junk mail. No bills, no letters, no nuthin.

It wasn't a holiday, either. Unless you count Earth Day. The federal government doesn't count Earth Day, do they?

I didn't mind an empty box. Usually our mailman is the middle man anyway: from our box, to our hands, to our trash can.

And I don't know anybody in their right mind who is eager to get a bill of any sort.

I did, however; get a letter a few weeks ago. First one of those I've received in a long, long time. It was actually a fan letter of sorts. I know you find this hard to believe, but I don't get many of those.

That would be  none, before this one.

This person spoke of how proud they were of my accomplishments in the writing field, and how eager they were to read my new book as soon as it arrived.

This person lives in a another state and was ordering my book on-line.

There's another big dollar for me.

Don't get me wrong, I'm glad  my books are available on-line for those who can't get them any other way. But it's pretty close to giving them away for me; if you compare what I make handing it to you from the back of my car.

I digress. I don't write to make a buck, although that's nice and enables me to write and publish again someday.

I write because I have to get all those voices and plots out of my head and onto paper. I need to write.

Bringing this all back around, write me a letter, send me a check, and I'll mail you a book.

That way you won't have the trauma we had yesterday when we opened our mailbox to find nothing but stale air.

It was heart breaking.

Seriously.

These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things

Do you ever find that some of your favorite things are tied in together somehow?

I have a (copy of) a painting that I really love.

My mother-in-law asked me to pick out something I wanted for Christmas, as she was no longer able to shop. This was the last Christmas she had on this earth.

I didn't want her to spend a lot of money, but I knew she also wanted it to be a good gift. I had had my eye on this print for a long time, so I brought her the catalogue and showed it to her. She was delighted to purchase that for me; she loved the picture, too.

Now, that print is very precious to me for more than one reason.

Of course, the obvious one is who bought it for me and why. I had the best mother-in-law on the planet, and wish she was still here. And she was one woman who absolutely loved giving presents.

The other reason is the painting reminds me of my favorite book in the whole wide world; "Tom's Midnight Garden" by Phillipa Pearce. I first read that book when I was in the fourth grade, and it is not an exaggeration to say I've probably read it a dozen times since.

The book is about a little boy who has to go live in a flat with his aunt and uncle for a summer. His brother has the measles and his parents don't want him to catch it. He is really disappointed because he is leaving the country and his friends for a dull summer in the city with adults who know nothing about children, with nothing or anyone to play with.

Then one night the old grandfather's clock in the foyer strikes thirteen and Tom can't stand it, so he goes downstairs to find everything...transformed.

The house has become what it once was, and he finds a delightful friend in a little girl named Hattie.

Hattie doesn't stay little, rather sometimes she is younger than Tom and sometimes a good bit older. Toward the end, she is even a young woman who is going ice skating.

It is Victorian times, and she is dressed as you might imagine, with ice skates in hand, ready to join in the fun.

The painting my mother-in-law purchased portrays a young woman in Victorian garb, holding a pair of ice skates. She is standing in the snow, with a pensive look on her face. She is at the edge of the pond. It is entitled "Winter - Shall I?"
Painted by E.. J. Gregory.

When I first saw the painting, I thought to myself, "That is exactly how Hattie would have looked - knowing she was growing up and Tom wasn't - and if she had to grow up, she would lose him.

It's a wonderful book. You ought to read it. I cried the first time I read it and I even get tears in my eyes now. It's the first book that completely surprised me with the ending.

Maybe it's because I was nine years old and it was written for such a young, tender heart as mine.

Or maybe that book really is magical.

I believe it has to be.

On Books

Do you ever read a book, wherein the heroine and hero are thrown into the air by the blast of a bomb and sorta wish they don't make it so the book will hurry up and end?

Sigh.

I've just finished two good books, one really good.

"The Brethren" by John Grisham is a good book. I enjoyed it.

But "Jerusalem Gap" by T. R. Pearson is a great book. I loved every word. He knows just how to turn a phrase, how to make you smile and wish the book was longer.

I have the latest Diana Gabaldon in my clutches, and will start it tonight.

However; the one I just finished was not good. Daughter could have done better - heck, I could have done better - when we were in grammar school. It's obviously one of those "outline" books. A person is given an outline and they follow it.

Wish they wouldn't.

I was suckered into reading it because it was about twins. And once I started, I didn't want to stop because I was already in bed and in too much discomfort to get up in search of something better.

That'll teach me.

Anyway, I love books, both reading and writing them.

If you have any books  you  love dearly and would like to share the title so I can read it too, please do!

Well, off to rest my back.

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.

Bookworm

I admit it. I am a bookworm.

I have been a bookworm since I started reading. I was, really, before I could even read. I knew in my heart that's what I was, and I yearned to read so badly I could taste it.

I loved the book "Hiawatha", which was really a poem "The Song of Hiawatha", by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Of course, at age five, I didn't know that. Someone had taken the poem and put it in a child's book, illustrating it to look like a children's book.

I wanted it read every night. My mother got so sick of it, she hid the book and claimed she had no idea where it was.

Where is DFACS when you need them?

The first book that struck awe in my heart was "Winnie the Pooh", sitting innocently on the library shelf. I was in second grade. The book was 161 pages, a veritable tome.

I loved it. And I have loved big old books ever since. The bigger the better!

Some of my favorite big books: "Winter's Tale" by Mark Helprin, "Outlander" (and the rest that follow) by Diana Gabaldon, all the "Harry Potter" books, by J. K. Rowling, "The Stand" by Stephen King. The list could grow fat, too, like the books.

I actually have a list of very good books, so that when friends say, "Can you recommend a book to me?" I not only can, I do.

A friend and I were talking about books today, and we ahhed over many a book and many an author.

There are some authors that simply rise above the rest. Their writing is better than other writers. Craig Johnson comes to mind, whose first book is "The Cold Dish". You need to read his books in order, as they are about the life of a man. I understand they have been made into a TV show. I've not seen it. Don't want to mess up my books.

If you have a book that's the best ever, let me know.

I'm always open for one more friend on the shelf.

In fact, I can hardly wait!

The Home Stretch

I can see the end. I am on the home stretch. Within about fifty pages, more or less, I will probably be finished with my first draft of my next novel.

I think, for the moment, it is going to be about a two hundred page book, which is a good sized read.

Although for me, when one of my favorite authors writes a really big novel, I get all a'quiver inside because I loooove big books.

That's reading them, not writing them.

In my experience, a book writes itself and will be as long as the story it has to tell.

I know you have read books where there is obviously filler, or the ending of the story just stops, or is lame.

I've read very good books until the last chapter or so, or even the last few pages, and the author makes ruination out of something that was pretty good.

I hope I never do that.

Anyway, once the first draft is complete (or I think it's complete - I thought "Out on a Limb of the Family Tree" was finished three or four times), the hard work begins.

Proof reading. Editing. Yuck.

And after I've done it myself, ad nauseum, I humbly ask others to do the same for me.

I would never send something unpolished to the publisher. I want it neat and complete.

I will hope not to get grumpy, not to become obsessed, and just be focused on the job.

Yeah. Right.

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.

All You Need Is Love

I suppose some couples are more compatible than others.

I also know opposites attract, and sometimes with disastrous results.

There are couples who look like each other.

And there are couples who are totally opposite in looks from one another, but are a lot alike in personality.

Husband said he always thought he'd marry a dark haired petite woman.  (His mother) I am tall and fair, so he failed miserably. But: my mother-in-law and I  were a lot alike in personality, so I think he got what he was looking for after all.

Me? I've always gone for the blond guy. And Husband, who is now more salt than pepper, had hair that bordered on black. (So I'll have a "blond" after all!)

What drew me to Husband in the first place? Laughter. We often laughed at the same time, and we laugh together every day.

I think that goes a long way in any relationship, unless you are the odd duck who has no sense of humor, and if you are, I can't imagine why you would still be reading my blogs, because they are fraught with silly.

Last night said it all for us when it comes to compatibility.

I knew, of course, we like the same room temperature, the same amount of covers on the bed, etc.

But last night, we were lying side by side, both of us with a book. My cat, Eli was sprawled across my chest and belly, where he often snuggles before I sleep. And may I say last night, his higher body temperature felt really, really good.

I happen to glance sideways, and there was Frost, another of our cats, sprawled across David's chest and belly, looking smug about his copy cat behavior.

Two giant white cats, lots of covers, a good book each.

Do we get along, or what?

Conjured Up

As most ya'll know, I am working on my sixth book.

This book is told in first person by a nine year old little girl.

Now, the more I write, the more real she becomes. I know a lot about her, more about her than you ever will, even if you read the book.

Because you can't put someone's whole life, their whole self between the covers of a book.

I believe if you have a character in a book who seems real to the person reading, then that character must be fully born, not a cardboard cutout.

For instance, I know she has an inny, not an outy. I know she doesn't like  her chin, but it isn't something she talks about to anyone for fear of hurting someone's feelings. I know she hates to pee at someone else's house, but is too polite to say so.

None of those things are in the book. But they are there, because that's a part of who she is.

I know how she turns out all grown up, more or less, but the book ends at the beginning of her tenth  year.

If you are a writer, you know exactly what I mean, you get it.

If you are not, you are pretty sure I'm just as crazy as you suspected.

I have people look at me and shake their heads, saying they can't even imagine what I'm talking about - characters in my head, not knowing what they might do in the next chapter, behaving in a way you don't expect them to.

I think they half admire me and half feel relief that they aren't that way at all.

So, the next time you pick up a book, think about the author for just a moment.

That's their baby you're holding in your  hands.

Books A Zillion

I have read somewhere around a bajillion books in my lifetime.

I know you may find that number hard to comprehend. I, myself, who have reached such a number, find it hard to grasp.

My family, on the other hand, would probably tell you it's more than that.

I love fiction.

The only time I read non-fiction is when I'm researching something for a book I'm writing, working on teaching a Bible study lesson, or can't find anything else.

Because, you see, dear reader, I am a bookaholic.

I'm no fool. I know this: I CANNOT stop any time I want to.

Not that I would ever want to.

You remember the Y2K scare?

The first fear I had? Starving? Nope. Freezing in the winter? Nope. Outdoor toilets? Nope. (that was second).

Not having enough books was number one on my list.

I figured I could read the hundreds I have at home over again. Then I could figure out a way to get to the library, break in if necessary, and cart away as much as I could haul in a wagon or something.

I am not kidding.

The only time in my life I have stopped reading for any length of time was after my back surgery.  I had falsely believed that I would be lying around a lot so I could read a lot.

Oh, ha.

I was lying around all right. In agony. I couldn't read anything. It was a terrible time.

But that, like everything else, passed.

Right now? I'm reading what I call a "filler". I don't have anything exciting at the moment. I'm waiting on a library book.

I have a big basket of books that folks have loaned me. They are paperbacks, and not something anyone is in  a hurry to get back. Sometimes I start one, shake my head slowly in sadness and wonder how the heck that slop got published and close it quickly.

But sometimes these books turn out to be pretty good.

I know a friend or another friend, somebody, will come through soon and call me excitedly and tell me about this book I just have to read.

And I will eagerly obtain it as quickly as possible and read it.

Which reminds me: if you have a great book, let me know. I'm always looking forward to reading something I know someone else has enjoyed. If I don't like it, well, I know how to close the cover.

Speaking of closing, I'll close for now, I'm in the middle of a chapter of a filler.

And this filler happens to be pretty good.

Happy reading, world!

Happiness is Fleeting

I called the library this morning to see if they had a book I desperately need.

You see, I am reading (or gobbling up) Craig Johnson's books. One must read them in order, as they are about the life of a small town sheriff.

I have two books that are to be returned, one I checked out and one I have on the sly from a friend (you know who you are). She read the book in one day, so I got it from her after church Sunday and finished it yesterday. It is still getting back to the library seven days before it's due, so if there is a person in line for it, they will be thrilled and none the wiser that I got to read it.

Anyway, the girl at the library said they did indeed  have the book I wanted, if I didn't mind large print. (I didn't ask her, but why would anybody mind large print?) I told her Husband would be by this afternoon to get it.

I was  happy! I could start a new book, one that I really, really was looking forward to!

In  less than five minutes the phone rang. It was the Library Lady. She said she'd looked everywhere and could not locate the book.

I was not happy.

Somebody needs to call the Li-burry Po-leece! I  mean, really. Has someone snuck off with my book without checking it out at the desk? Don't they  have detectors at the library doors for those thieving rat finks?

Anyway, see what I mean? Happiness is fleeting.

I believe we can have that deep abiding peace and joy Christ talked about. I have it, in fact, whether I'm happy or not.

And I also think God doesn't care whether we are happy. Many times He puts me in situations that makes me pretty unhappy. Growth and discipline aren't always fun filled, you know.

But I have His peace.

I wouldn't trade that for all the happy in the world.

A Work of Art

I worked for several years with a man named Art.

He was a big, strapping guy, well over six feet tall. In fact, everything about him was big. His personality, his movements, his voice.

He was one of the therapists in my office. I often would tell him he needed to use his inside voice, for I could hear him through a closed door and down the hall.

He would laugh his big laugh, hug me from the side, and say, "All right, Mama. I'll try."

Although Art was old enough to be my daddy, he called me mama. He said he'd never had a boss like me. Said I knew exactly how to be a boss, and that was just like being a good mama. I knew when to love, I knew when to discipline, I knew when to say 'good job!', and I loved all the staff.

Now, those words were his, but it is true, I love(d) them all. I didn't think of them as my children, though, sometimes it was a little hard not too. They were professionals: nurses, therapists, doctors, secretaries, van drivers and techs. And every one one of them, for the most part, did an excellent, professional job.

Many of them are my fast friends, even today.

Art was a southerner, but not a southerner like me. He was a Mississippi bayou southerner.

His past was somewhat mysterious. I knew he'd been a minister in the church, that he had a really crazy wife (she tried to run him down with the car while their little children were with her), and that somehow because of her insanity and accusations directed toward him, he left the church - or was asked to leave.

We talked some about our spiritual, Christian beliefs. He told me once I was one of the deepest people he'd ever met, I knew more than I let on about spiritual life. That came from discussions I won't go into here.

We also shared books.

He was so proud when my first book, 'Falling', was published, he couldn't wait for them to arrive. So he ordered one off  Amazon. I think he was just tickled he could order a book by me off the Internet.

He came to the book signing, hugging every woman twice and more if  he could get away with it.

The day he died just about broke my heart. You see, Art also had a big vain streak. He was  not about to admit to his severe health problems, therefore he did nothing about them.

He was on his way to work and  had to pull over. He was able to call 9-1-1 from his cell phone so an ambulance could get him to a hospital.

He died very shortly afterward.

He had called me about two weeks before when he was in town. He wanted me to meet him for lunch, but I was not well that day, and was still in my pajamas. He had to get back somewhere fairly quickly and couldn't wait on me to get ready. I even suggested he could get us food and come out to the house, but he said he was too pushed for time. "Now, I love you, darlin', we have to get together soon, you  hear?"

I agreed. Made him promise to call me on his way in so I could get ready next time, not to spring it on me. He laughed and promised that's what he'd do.

That time never came, of course.

I went to his house for a memorial service by invitation of his family. I received a phone call from  one of his cousins who was going through his address book. She found my name, checked out my relationship to him through a person she and Art knew who also knew me, and told me she wanted me to attend.

He owned a little house that he was very proud of. He'd remarried late in life and loved her very much, but she had died just before I was introduced to Art. So his house, and all that was in it, was going to some family that really had no interest in most of his belongings.

They had his pictures everywhere. Man, he was a real looker in his youth! He was Mister this and Mister that in high school, and no wonder. Stories were told, most of them funny.

Neither of his children attended. He'd been estranged from them for many years.

Some of us sat around and pieced together parts of his mysterious life. He had shared a little piece with one person, another little piece with someone else. We ended knowing a lot more than we did, but nowhere near who he may have really been.

Towards the end of the evening, the family announced they wanted us to browse Art's bookshelves and take whatever we wanted.

I was looking for my own book, thinking I'd like to have it with what I had written to him on the inside cover. But his cousin said one of the young girls in the family had already chosen it, and I said for her to keep it by all means. She told me they had found the book on his bedside table.

For some reason, my eye was drawn to a particular book, and I pulled it from the shelf. On the inside cover, written in Art's large scrawl the words: "Recommended by Kathi Hill as a must read". I got chills all over my body, because there were  hundreds of books to choose from.

Leave it to Art to find a way to tell me good-bye.

Good old Art. I loved him so, and I miss  him still.

I hope I see him again someday.

I hope he's where he can use his big old laugh and outside voice all the time. I don't think God would mind.

I'm a Bookaholic

Anyone who knows me very well knows I'd rather read than eat.

 Unless I'm hungry, of course.

I remember wanting to read, and the first books to influence my life were the "Dick and Jane" series, which taught me to read by the  method of memorization. Worked great, I might add.

I remember being around seven and seeing this fat book in the children's section and my heart rate kicked up. Could it be? Could there be a big book I could read? It was "The House at Pooh Corner" by A. A. Milne. I was indeed allowed to check it out and take it home.

I thought  I had arrived.

The next book that stands out in my memory is one that changed my life. At least my reading life. "Tom's Midnight Garden" by Philippi Pearce is about 'time-slippage', or what we would call today time travel. This is my most favorite book of all time, and I read it to my cousin, my brothers, my daughter, and even did it by chapter as an afternoon group at work.

I've been hooked on time travel books ever since. There are wonderful ones, (Diana Gabaldon, where is that next 'Outlander' series book?), and some very bad ones, which of course shall remain nameless.

Stephen King captured my attention with "Salem's Lot", but the best he ever has done is "The Stand".

There are precious books, books I wouldn't trade, (even for food), one of a kind books that, after I read, can't wait to call my friend and say "You have GOT to read this one!"

I have a list of my favorites, and I share them with anyone who asks.

With my physical limitations, I truly don't know what I'd do without my good friends, books.

It puts a dreamy look on my face, right now, as I think about the four new library books husband brought to me just a few hours ago.

See ya later, I got stuff to do!

Things That Change Your Life

I've written short stories, poems and essays since I was ten. I always said I'd never write a book, I'm too impatient, I bore easily, blah blah. Of course, I wrote a book (or five).

But the first one, "Falling", helped me when I was still in such pain I was up much of the time during the night, unable to sleep or even lie still. So, I'd get up and type a chapter or a page or a paragraph.

Thank God a good doctor found a medication combo that helped me some, and I can (usually) sleep through the night.

The book still helps me in another way too, and that is people of all ages and both sexes tell me how much the book means to them. I am amazed, because I wrote it for young girls, high school and college age. And it is a simple book. But maybe not as simple as it seems.

I've been honking my horn so loudly about my three recent books, that I haven't mentioned "The Crow and The Wind" in a long time, either. A children's book that came from a dream. God stuff, that.

And my talented husband who can draw anything I can envision.

Pretty cool, huh?