I’ve been trying to de-clutter and simplify my life. It’s not easy, because I keep discovering more things to toss. I’m not just talking about knick-knacks, here—although I’m making headway on that front. So far, this year’s biggest clutter mission has been to rid myself of body-clutter—accumulated pounds that a wake-up call from my doctor is scaring me into losing. Then last week I was assigned, by an editor at Steeple Hill, the toughest de-cluttering mission of all—getting rid of 20,000 words. Let me tell you, counting Weight Watcher points is nothing compared to ripping eighty pages out of my beloved novel. As all good writers do—I’d labored over every word. Polished every sentence. There was nothing left to cut. At least that’s what I thought. With the carrot of possible publication dangling in front of me, I’ve spent the past two weeks eliminating all the cute little rabbit holes I’d explored, deleting dozens of “he saids” and “she saids,” throwing out hundreds of adverbs. I even deleted a couple secondary plots to which I’d grown way too attached, and you know what? The people at Steeple Hill were right. I needed to lose eighty pages. Every bit of word-clutter […]

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I visited my aunt yesterday. The last of my mother’s siblings. Two years ago, at age 84, she remarried and moved to Dayton. Sold her farm. Sold the house she’d been born in. Moved into a small cottage in the city with her new husband, also a widower. He was once a professional musician, and the minute she met him, she says she longed to play piano to his guitar. I don’t know if it was love at first sight, but after six years of lonely widowhood, rattling around that huge farm house–she wasted no time grabbing onto that sweet man. And they began to make music together. If my mother were still aive, she’d think her baby sister had lost her mind. And maybe Mom would be right–being in love is a bit like being insane. And yet…and yet… As I watched her bouncing around on the piano bench, pounding the keys while he played guitar, I thought that perhaps she’d added another ten years to her life with music and hope and companionship. I applauded with my heart as well as my hands. Then Aunt Mary surprised us. She whipped out a harmonica and played a mean accompaniment […]

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It’s taken awhile, but I think I can laugh about it now. ..kind of. My editor interview in Dallas did not go well. I was nervous and accidentally shifted into high gear. Miss Chatty Cathy–that’s me. I told that poor editor everything but my bra size. Those fifteen minutes were filled with more words than anyone could possibly comprehend. The very nice editor watched me with her mouth half opened, as though she simply couldn’t believe anyone could talk that much and that fast. I have a strong suspicion she took a couple of Excedrin after I left. It reminded me of a t-shirt I saw once with the words “Help! I’ve started talking and I can’t stop!” written on it. I should have worn that t-shirt to the interview. That’s the wonderful thing about writing. I can EDIT what I write. I stepped way out of my comfort zone when I walked into those interview rooms, I stumbled and tripped over my own tongue. I ended up feeling like a fool. But at least I did it. Maybe next time I’ll do a little better.

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It rained all night. Heavy, steady, ground-soaking rain. The kind of rain that loosens dirt and causes tree roots to lose their foothold and topple over onto electrical wires. That’s probably what happened during the night when I awoke to a no-electricity morning. This happens frequently in the country, and yet it is, somehow, always a big surprise to me. No lights? No morning radio? No shower? No coffee? I stumbled around in the pre-dawn darkness, half-asleep, flipping on one uncooperative light switch after another. My husband had awakened before me and was already in the kitchen, dressed and in his right mind, when I shuffled in. Kerosene lamps were lit and sitting on the counter, giving our kitchen a golden glow. I opened the outside door, hoping to let in the first rays of dawn, and found it was warm outside, pleasant enough to sit on the porch and watch the sun come up. Now it’s become just light enough to write the old-fashioned way—with pen and notebook while the rain plays against our tin roof.  I almost wonder if there is something wrong with me to harbor a secret hope that the electricity stays off awhile longer. I […]

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I’ve been worried for weeks about a writer’s conference that I’ll be attending in Dallas tomorrow. It will involve switching planes, a layover in St. Louis, an airport shuttle, lack of sleep, new people to meet, intense workshops, and eventually a meeting with an editor to whom I will attempt to “pitch” my latest book. This is high adventure for a woman who lives on a gravel road. I am supposed to pack “business casual” clothes for the four days I’ll be there, as well as a nice dinner gown for the final evening ceremonies. This is a huge problem when my favorite ensemble consists of  jeans and worn flannel shirts picked up at the local thrift store. I think I might finally be almost ready for this conference, though. My daughters-in-law have helped with my wardrobe selection, my computer guru son designed and printed my business cards as well as designed my website, my MBA oldest son, who hires and fires people daily, counseled me on the fine art of interviews, my English major daughter-in-law went over my manuscript with a fine-toothed comb, and my beautician, who is also a writer, gave me an especially nice haircut. Obviously, it takes a village to […]

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