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. 

Carpel Tunnel Rules!

Raise your hand if you have Carpal Tunnel.

Ha! Trick question. If you have Carpal Tunnel, you can't raise your hand. (well, maybe some of you can, beats me.)

It is one of the minor ailments I have, but after working on my book yesterday and getting eight pages done, Carpal Tunnel wasn't so  minor.

If you are a writer, contemplate this: How easy is it to read eight pages of a novel versus to write eight pages of a novel? And, no, don't send your therapist's bill to me.

It's like comparing having to floss versus a root canal.

Don't be a writer unless you just hafta.

But the trip is exhilarating. You go into 'flow' and don't know where the time goes. One has a great sense of accomplishment when the rush is over. As  you read what you've done, edit as you go, and then let it get 'cold' for further editing, it does feel like you are on top of the world.

That  may not last long; however. Like when you go back and read it after it's 'cold' and you say, "What the heck does that  mean? Can I really not spell anything correctly?"  Etc.

Still, this past week I have accomplished a great deal. Searching all through this stupid computer to find hidden poems, essays and short stories that for some reason were filed in a hundred different places; compiling them into one file and printing them out so I can actually see what I have was very satisfying. As was working on my current novel. 

Who knows? Someday you may be forced have the privilege of reading this load of junk fascinating collection.

Until then, somebody get  me the ice pack. My arm is killin' me.

Ain't God Funny?

For those of you who know me, you will find this following "short story" (and I do mean short) pretty dumb founding.

I wrote this when I was sixteen or so, and back then my short stories were around a page or two. I was learning the craft, I guess.

It's not the length or the astounding talent (ha) that will get you...it's the content.

Read and be amazed. I know I was. I really was:

They looked at the small baby cradled in her arms.

When he frowned, you could see the dimples that both his young mother and father had.

His eyes were brown, like his father’s, his hair blond, like his mother’s.

A few freckles dotted his nose. Neither of the parents had freckles, but the father’s kid brother had them – millions of them.

His nose was shaped exactly like his father’s, but his face was beautifully oval and smooth, like his mother’s.

It seemed as if each of the parent’s best qualities had been put together and molded into this child.

He was beautiful.

The young parents looked at each other and smiled.

No one would ever know he had been adopted.

See what I mean?

The Long Or Short Of It

Here is a little preview of something I've been working on.

My questions are:

1. Is it worth it?

2. Beginnings of a novel or "just" a nice short story?

Who knows, as I asked the other day.

Here goes:

          As he put the car in a lower gear to climb the ever steepening rise of the road, the whole town came suddenly into focus. It was as if a magician had pulled back a curtain and revealed a hidden secret.  And with its appearance, every memory he had hidden from himself for the last twenty years rose to the surface, much like the town had done.

          He took in the bridge, the steeple and the old houses in one swift gaze. Beyond, the entire town was surrounded by the mountains that were at this moment in all their autumn glory. The evening sun shone on them, lighting them with fire from within.

          The little town was where his parents had been born and were raised. All his family had gone there for holidays and summer stays.

          He could never imagine actually living there, but he could not imagine wanting to live anywhere else.

          So many good things were there, including his first love. He could smile and remember how it felt to hold her in his arms. Their first kiss still made a sharp pang zing through his heart.

          Some friends were gone. One lost to a raging storm off the coast, another to a raging storm inside his own body.

          Ready or not, he was here and prepared to stay.

          At least for a while.

Whadda ya think?