The Slave Quarters: Writing What I Know

 When I was six years old, my family moved from a two story, cedar-sided home with an intercom system and attached garage into a 500 square foot slave quarters set on a 365 acre, Civil War-era farm. The arrangement was supposed to be temporary, only until our new house was built, but my nine-year-old brother Joshua did not appreciate my Polly Pocket paraphernalia being mixed in with his LEGOs regardless if it was for a short time or not. To provide a solution to our territory wars, Mother took home decorating to a whole new level by dividing the room into halves with a strip of duct tape.

Within the first few weeks we discovered brown recluse spiders with legs as thin as threads in the crevices of the kitchen cabinets and in the dark dust beneath the woodstove. Mother, not yet accustomed to the poisonous creatures the South provided, went to the Gorham-MacBane Public Library and checked out books on brown recluses and the symptoms one experienced when injected with their poison. After viewing the accompanying photos of spider bitten victims, she became even more distressed.

“Merle, where’ve you taken us?” she asked our father while jabbing at a photo of an oozing, gangrenous leg. “Do you know when a brown recluse bites you, your skin rots until that area’s cut out?”

We soon realized those were not the only creatures parading around our walls. At night before we went to sleep, Joshua and I could hear the skittering paws of tiny animals as they burrowed around in the attic insulation to make their nests. When I lunged into my parents’ bed one night while whimpering about the noise, my mother hushed me and said they were just momma squirrels taking care of their babies. Regardless of her sweet story -- which she surely did not even believe -- in my mind all I could see were rats.

During the winter mornings when the wind nipped at the slave quarters' walls, my father would stuff the stove with logs and hurriedly slam the door before the glowing embers could spew onto the hardwood floor. Even with this attempt to raise the temperature of the rooms, Joshua and I were still so cold we wiggled into our school clothes while hunkered under our covers.

Then, in 1993, an ice-storm swept through the Southern states, snapping power lines like silly string. We spent that week gathered around the woodstove sipping soup, coffee, and cocoa. Once our bellies were warm, my mother bundled my brother and me to the point we’d rather wet ourselves than go through the pain of shedding multiple layers. Feeling like the Charles Ingalls family in their little house in the Big Woods, our father nestled me into an orange toboggan sled and asked Joshua to lead us into the wide, white world.

Outside, we were surrounded by silence. Then, with a crack that reverberated like a .22 rifle being fired, one of the coated trees came crashing down through the surrounding forest and collapsed in a spray of snow and splintered ice. Throughout that day, with each new snap of toppling timber, Father knew somewhere there was another tree he’d need to cut up with his chain saw and haul out of the woods. But because all the snow and ice reminded him of the 33 years he’d spent in Pennsylvania, he didn’t seem to mind. Instead, my father whistled as we hovered around the woodstove and waited for the sounds of the falling forest.

Sick of Winter?

Let's all go snorkeling in KAUAI!

A Round Table of Writers

Yesterday, I had the pleasure of attending a social media session in Nashville hosted by River Jordan, author of The Gin Girl, The Messenger of Magnolia Street, Saints in Limbo, and her forthcoming novel, The Miracle of Mercy Land. Also at the event was JT Ellison, the bestselling author of the critically acclaimed Taylor Jackson series; Greg Daniel, the founder of the literary agency, Daniel Literary Group; one of Nashville's top Twitterers, Matthew Paul Turner, who's also the author of the non-fiction books, Churched: One Kid's Journey Toward God Despite a Holy Mess, and Hear No Evil: My Story of Innocence, Music, and the Holy Ghost. There were others in attendance as well (10, to be exact) whose names I cannot recall but whose exuding confidence in their writing calling I cannot forget--even if I wanted to, and, at the time, I kind of wanted to.

For--among all this mature, literary genius--you had me who, just two days before, was said to resemble more of a junior higher than a semi-responsible, degree-toting 23-year-old. But it wasn't this physical discrepancy that had me contemplating a mad dash for the door; I'm quite used to being petite (NOT short, people!)--I'm patted on the head like a puppy all the time; no, what had me writhing with inadequacy was the sense that I had no right to be there, seated at that Round Table of Writers (well, it was actually composed of four folding tables, but you get the picture) while they slung out social media jargon, and I nodded and smiled like a Vanna White bobble head.

It wasn't always thus. When I attended such events before I was like a proud momma gushing about her child; if I had pictures of my novel all scrubbed, naked, and plopped in one of those tin washtubs, I would have gladly passed them around to the chagrin of every optically unchallenged person in the room. Now, after I came to the conclusion my novel had to die all I wanted was to keep it locked in a closet without food or water or sunlight. But I couldn't: for one, my mother would really lock me in a closet without food or water if I did so. For two, the encouragement of my writing peers helped me understand that--although they were now mature, literary geniuses--they also had to start from the ground up. They too struggled with the quandary of to toss or not to toss the novel out with the rewriting bathwater.

Should Twitter and Facebook be viewed any differently than that Round Table of Writers? Instead of employing these avenues of communication as building blocks toward a platform or means of gaining clout (or Klout) in the writing community, we should use it to volley information back and forth; to offer support when projects fail; to celebrate with one another when they succeed. If we do this, think of the protection we can provide, which no bad reviews or blogging comments could conquer.

I am a prime example of how the true online community benefits: an unknown writer who's already botched her first novel and is still surrounded by a wonderful Round Table of authors who believe in her to such an extent that she's allowed to sit among them; to absorb, albeit through osmosis, their words of experience and wisdom and to apply it to all her future writing endeavors.

She really should work on that whole first person thing, though.

What Can I Say? I've Got Skills...

I know--try not to be jealous.

The Novel Must Die

Today marks one week since I murdered my first novel. It was not a senseless act of violence, but neither was it premeditated. I just knew--and, if I am to be honest, my readers did as well--that it had to be done.

As always with something birthed through a haze of blood, sweat, and tears, I snotted, sweated, and bled (well, that last part's a bit hyperbolized) all over myself once I realized the time had come for it to die. My husband who, after a year and a half of marriage, has become quite accustomed to my all-or-nothing personality was still a little frightened when he stumbled into our office and saw me sitting before the computer monitor, my fingers hovered above the keyboard, with tears coursing down my face.

Being the good husband he is, he asked with just the right amount of tentative sincerity, "What's wrong?"

"The novel must die!" I replied before bursting into a fresh bout of mucousy matter.

(I'm glad you weren't there. It wasn't too pretty.)

I cried for a good hour, and I cry like I sneeze--no delicate little sniffle, no dainty little mouse squeak. Both of these cathartic actions strip bark from trees and sprays everything within a ten mile radius with the efficiency of a produce sprinkler. (Keep this on the down low; I don't want to go under alternative engery testing.) I was crying for the death of my novel, but I was also crying for the death of an ideal.

Nine months ago when this project began, I was brimming with confidence and felt an inner writing switch had flipped. I remember that day clearly. It was a Sunday. My husband and I had journeyed to our 40 acre patch of land, and I wanted to take a walk regardless of the storm clouds boiling overhead. I was trotting along, thinking about espionage plots set in Amish country, when those clouds cracked like a china cup and rain poured over me. I didn't have an umbrella, of course, and the closest thing I could find to one was those veined maroon numbers that sprout up everywhere in the spring. I ripped the plant up by it roots and held it over my head. I'm sure I would've been committed right then and there if someone had found me looking like a deranged Mary Poppins, but our road is (thankfully) deserted.


Then, that funny little "umbrella" got me thinking (always a slightly dangerous
endeavor). I recalled the ending scene in one of my favorite movies, Little Women, when Jo March and Professor Frederick Bhaer stand under an umbrella in the rain while drenching each other with mushy words; then, my mind zipped back a few scenes before that. I recalled Jo March spouting angry tears once she realizes her novel, filled with tales of sabers and sorcery, is not considered quality work by Professor Frederick Bhaer. Her pride wounded, Jo flees the city and her dreams; and only after the death of her sister, Beth, is she able to tap into her true writing potential by creating a world she has already inhabited; thus, reconnecting her with her dream and with her love (Professor Frederick Bhaer--I'm still fuming over that one).

The End.

If I had a mustache that rainy spring day, I would have twirled it contemplatively; for, instead of creating a world filled with espionage plots set in Amish country, I could--just like Jo March--write a novel about my unique childhood experiences and have an instant best seller and perhaps a movie deal!

Right?

Well, nine months and 115,000 words later I can confidently say, WRONG!!!

During the creation of Segregation at Springcreek, like a crazy pageant mother with her child, I smeared the story with paint and dressed it in frills--all in preparation for the publication stage--while not even caring if that was what it wanted to do or where it wanted to go. I had an internal plotline that nothing and no one could divert me from. Once the novel was finished, I printed it out, bundled it up, and sent it away to my dear readers. Five days later, I found myself bawling in front of my computer monitor after reading a kind yet honest email, which confirmed my sudden inkling that my novel was too close to me and therefore had to die (okay, that whole pageant mother analogy doesn't work so great any more--ignore it). Even though I really, really wanted to toss my computer off a short bridge and perhaps jump with it (not a tall brige, mind you), I knew I couldn't.

For although the pain surrounding the story's figurative birth had been something quite apocalyptic--just ask my husband (many times, while screaming like a banshee, I had squeezed his hands until his fingertips turned white)--I was glad it was safely nestled in my "Stuff I Can No Longer Use" folder. And like I hear about the birth of a literal child, you soon forget the haze of blood, sweat, and tears surrounding its entry when you're holding that lil' papoose of joy in your arms and soon begin yearning for another one.

Hence, only one week since the murder of my first novel, I'm creating another which is completely removed from me (no, it does not involve espionage in Amish country--I said it was removed from me). And once it is old enough to walk on its own, I am determined to let it take me by the hand, and I will gratefully follow wherever the plot may lead.

Who knew this whole time I was missing a leg? 'Cause I sure didn't...

Smile although your feet are dirty...

"Happiness is a conscious choice, not an automatic response."

(A shot of my brother, Joshua, and me in Pennsylvania--probably around 1988.)

Writing in a Runner's World

This past weekend I ran in a 5K -- or survived a 5K might be the better phrasing -- and learned more about the dynamics of the writing world than I could have in a week’s worth of conferences (mighty convenient, I must say, since it’s cheaper).

I started off the race like I’d been shot from a cannon. I sped past the runners in their sleek Under Armour gear with their special running watches and their special running shoes. Ah-ha! I thought, quite triumphantly, for the only high tech gear I had was my husband’s iPod (mine had gone through every cycle in our washer and hadn’t lived to tell about it).

For the first mile I glided down that icy road like I was in some Bollywood-style Chariots of Fire.

Nothing and NO ONE was going to steal that six inch gilded trophy! It didn’t matter that, due to the icy weather, I had no one in my age bracket to even compete against. If for nothing else, I was just going to beat my freshmen 5K time. Shouldn’t have been too hard, right? But that was five years ago, and I hadn’t properly trained since.

Half a mile later my music hit a slower song, and I could hear my breathing. I sounded like Darth Vader after a lifetime’s slurping of unfiltered cigarettes. I lowered the volume of my iPod, making sure the sound I heard was actually me and not the raspy chuggings of a distant train. It was me and, in some weird psychological connection, I began coughing up all sorts of unsavory things upon this discovery. My gallop shifted to a canter, to a trot, to a walk.

In no time at all the sleek Under Armour runners wearing their special running watches and their special running shoes passed me like I was standing still. What’s the use? I thought, as dejected as I’d been elated. Can’t catch up to them now. To show the full spectrum of my stubborn streak, I began sauntering a bit, like I was out for an artic stroll even while sleet nipped my eyes. The 5K police escorts must’ve thought the cold had frozen me crazy, for they began following me in a tinted-windowed SUV with flashing caution lights.

That was slightly embarrassing.

So, I began running again but took baby steps instead of long, loping strides. And although I spent that last mile and a half praying to be teleported to the finish line, when I did finally cross it (no, I didn’t beat my freshmen time; it beat me), my gratefulness for having survived the journey with all 10 fingers and nine toes far surpassed my disappointment at having lost that six inch gilded trophy.

I know, I know...at best by now you’re probably shaking your head, and at worst banging said head on desk while screaming, “Isn’t this supposed to be about writing?!” Well, thank you, Mr. or Miss Patience, for asking that question. You see, I had to address my very traumatic experience before unveiling my deep, philosophical musings on writing.

Before you permanently damage yourself with those desk bashings, here goes:

Mistake Number Uno: I started off that race like I’d been shot from a cannon.

Interpretation: You cannot start off into the writing world without pacing yourself, or your figurative sides will begin to seize, and you’ll start hocking up all kinds of gunk on to the page, and they’ll end up scraping your hide off the sidewalk rather than burying said hide in Westminster Abbey.

Mistake Number Dos: I thought I could run like Eric Liddell without having trained like Eric Liddell.

Interpretation: You cannot create Pulitzer prize-winning material without having first trained yourself in what that material entails, or agents and editors will begin passing your work up while you sit on your haunches on a street corner somewhere, reading the paragraphs of your masterpiece while hoping for people’s crummy pennies.

Mistake Number Tres: Instead of focusing on my own two feet, which were running their own race, I kept looking over my shoulder at the sleek Under Armour people wearing their special running watches and their special running shoes.

Interpretation: As a writer, you CANNOT keep comparing yourself to other writers! Writers are all creating different genres; they all have different writing voices and different ways of getting these voices across. If you keep staring at everyone else’s work, you will be forever stunted while creating your own, and they’ll find you a century from now all sheathed in dust and shriveled up like a prune over your keyboard.

Mistake Number Cuatro: Once I realized I had to temporarily bow out of the 5K or spend the rest of my life in an iron lung, I became too focused on my defeat and lost sight of the end goal: finishing the race.

Interpretation: Even if you run into a brick wall of writer’s block, that does not mean you have to burn your manuscript, jump drive, computer, house, ect. As my childhood hero Anne Shirley always said, “Tomorrow is always fresh with no mistakes in it.” So, don’t give up! Hit those writer’s blocks with a sledge hammer if you have to!

(Disclaimer: not responsible for any damages to persons or properties.)

You must keep pressing toward that publishing finish line, and even if you don’t end up holding that Pulitzer prize in your hands -- which probably isn’t as cool as it's cracked up to be -- just know that you did your best, you gave it your all, and you hopefully lived to tell about it. (Although Emily Dickinson sure got famous using the other approach.)

Blue Hands and Bristling Days

This quote's for you out there hunkered against the cold with your blue hands nestled under your armpits:

"If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant: if we did not sometimes taste of adversity, prosperity would not be so welcome.”
-Anne Bradstreet

This picture's really just for me and my honeybunchkins--so don't pay attention. I just like remembering that bristling day we trespassed and climbed the Standing Stone Fire Tower.

Two Words: Lactose Intolerant

Yes, sadly, this is I before me -- and my pediatrician -- discovered Acidophilus milk.



And please, although you may want to, do NOT set this as your desktop background. All copyrights remain with me and my childhood modeling agency.

(That is sarcasm.)

A Shot of Joy in the Morning

Who says a fierce "Mohican man" cannot also be the next Martha Stewart? The following pictures of my husband's dalliance with knitting are proof that he can!



Step One:
My husband tells his sister, "That looks so easy, give me that!"



Step Two:
My husband grits his teeth and snarls while realizing knitting's not as simple as it seems.



Step Three:
Within five minutes my husband has learnt more about knitted than I ever have (or will!).

The Origin of the Happy Book Blog

A week before I left for college, my best friend gave me a notebook. Besides the words "Happy Book" scrawled across the cover, for all appearances it seemed a very simple gift. Little did I know what impact it would have on the next four years of my life.

The purpose of the notebook was simple: write down the thoughts, experiences and emotions that had brought a smidgen of joy to my day. In the beginning, I saw that book as an assignment; something I had to fill before the year was finished. I jotted down lists highlighting everything from freshmen infatuation to the first flurries of winter. Over time, though, as my life was challenged with heartache, my brother's substance abuse, my best friend's diagnosis with cancer, my college friend's death, I saw that book not as an assignment but as a lifeline.

Sometimes the entries in that notebook were blurred with tears as I furiously scribbled down the silver lining to every storm cloud smothering my life's sky. Sometimes I wanted to rip out the pages and ball them up like a fist, destroying that which had once brought joy to my heart now diminished by distance, disease and death.

But in the end, I never could. Those short, numbered entries were a testament that -- despite trials and tribulations -- someday, somehow the shards of sun would eventually spear those clouds covering my sky, causing them to wither and melt away, and I would be presented with a choice: cling to those things which had once brought joy, or become bitter and barren because they existed no longer.

I chose to cling to joy, and you know what? the grace resided in the fact that there were always new, happy things to record: my first tangible taste of love; my brother's rehabilitation; my best friend's successful bone marrow transplant, and those friendships I had gained through losing one so dear to me.

The purpose of The Happy Book Blog is for you, dear reader, to have a place where you can step away from the hustle and bustle of life and read about something that can bring joy to your heart. Many times my posts are not momentous, flowery or even overtly cheerful. My simple goal for each is to add a splash of technicolor optimism in this world turned to gray.