The Writing Scott

Blurbs and Quotes for a First Novel: Or, It's Not All Greek To Me

2012-01-25T10:42:00.000-05:00

I'd thought, after my novel was sold and the fairy dust cleared and settled, that the process of finding authors to read my work and offer a blurb or quote I could use to promote the work would be a bit like attempting to get into a sorority.

I don't know how it's done elsewhere, but in the South when a sweet girl goes off to the big university and decides (or others decide for her) that she'd like to be in a sorority, friends of the family who are alums will often write letters for said girl. They send them to the powers-that-be in that sorority, encouraging the powers to take a good, hard look at the girl: that she'd be perfect for their group. (I always imagined perky 21 year-old college seniors sitting around a pink office with Greek letters embroidered on everything--the stationary, the backs of chairs, cross-stitched and hung in pink frames on the walls. But that's not fair, because really, those girls could easily be sitting in a pub having beers, a stack of letters on the table before them.) The point is: I thought it'd be harder than it really is.

The fact is, authors have to work more diligently than ever to promote their own work. The times they are a changin'. So while I've utilized my literary agent and my editor when seeking those quotes and blurbs, I'm doing the bulk of it myself. And what I've found is that most writers are incredibly generous, willing to take the time to help out a first-timer in need. That's not only awesome, it's a relief.

I haven't followed any format. I simply made a list of my favorite authors, whether or not I thought I'd have a chance of getting a quote or blurb from them. I concentrate on (but don't limit myself to) historical fiction authors, because that's the genre of my novel. And then I do my research--entirely online as it turns out--learning the best ways to contact them. Some are easier to reach than others: they've got direct email addresses on their websites. Others insist you go through their literary agents or publishers, and yet others have online forms you can fill out (these concern me the most, for some wierd reason... because I wonder where that information is actually ending up). I also look into their places of business, especially those who also teach for a living, and find email addresses that way.

When writing to these folks, I write from my heart. I give the necessary information--my name, my novel title, my writing background, my publisher/editor's info, the publication date, etc--but I also let them know how much I admire their work. That is, of course, the reason I choose them: I love their stuff. I'm not afraid to admit that I fawn (and yes, it is fawning when you're openly praising a writer whose work you've loved for years), and I'm honest about it. Email is tough: so much meaning can be misconstrued. It's important to be straight-forward. Be yourself. This is my theory.

Authors who offer direct email addresses, I've found, respond the quickest. And they'll tell you, right away and often with regret, that they simply don't have the time to devote to reading your novel. Others will write back immediately, surprising you, and agree. They give a mailing address, I pop a Special Format Review copy of my novel in a big, manilla envelope with a handwritten "thank you" note (because, good Lord am I thankful!), and off it goes.

The worst case scenario is that the author just doesn't respond. But persistence (in every aspect of life, whether you're learning to cook creamy grits, garden successfully, or trying to potty train your dog or your daughter) is key. I'd attempted to contact one of my favorite best-selling historical novelists in every way I could find--via her online form, through Goodreads, through Facebook, through her publisher--but hadn't had any luck. I decided I'd send her one more quick, private Facebook message, and that would be it. By the next day she'd sent me a direct email, apologizing for taking so long at getting back to me, and offering to read my novel. She was honest: She couldn't promise a blurb, but she'd read it.

And that's all any first-time author can ask for. It's a review copy, so it hasn't been edited yet. More than that, I know that my novel won't be every person's "cup of tea." And that's okay.

So far, I've had two wonderful writers read my novel and offer blurbs. One, Darci Hannah (author of The Exile of Sara Stevenson and The Angel of Blythe Hall, two novels I love) I emailed directly using an address she offers on her web site. Another, Philip Lee Williams (a prolific writer in several genres, and the author of The Flower Seeker, The Campfire Boys, etc) I met through a fan letter, me to him. I'd read an essay he'd written about the place where my novel is set, and the essay affected me so deeply I just had to write him. We began a correspondence, and I asked if he'd read my novel. Both of these authors not only agreed, they were gracious, generous, and kind, and I'll be forever thankful for their praise.

I've got other authors currently reading my novel, and it's difficult not to worry on that: to hope like all heck they'll like the story I tried to tell. Some of them will, and some of them won't.

But I'm finding, more and more, that writers are--overwhelmingly--an interesting, generous, quirky, wonderful bunch. When you're a writer, your daily life can be quite solitary. You sit at your desk, staring at a computer screen (or a legal pad, if you're old-school), and you invoke the mystery. You pray for it to visit its magic upon you. You work by yourself, because no one can do it but you. It's easy to forget that you're part of a community--that you can be, if you want to be. You've just got to reach out.

I'm big on tribes. My tribe of friends, especially, is comprised of the coolest cats I know. But it's nice to know that I may just be joining another tribe soon, a tribe of authors I already admire. And as long as the hazing doesn't include zit cream, funneling really bad beer, or eating mystery food while blindfolded, I am all in.

Back in the Saddle

2012-01-16T16:36:00.004-05:00

First residency at the Vermont College of Fine Arts MFA in Writing program completed: Check.

Back home and procrastinating like the champion pro-cras-ti-NAY-TOR that I am: Check check.

It's 3:06 in the afternoon, and I'm still wearing my pajamas. Granted, they're whimsical, black and white, Fair Isle-patterned, Victoria Secret long underwear pajamas, but it's after 8 a.m., and I'm still wearin' 'em. The gas logs are blazing, my black lab is snoring on her Christmas-present new dog bed, and my toddler is napping. Finally.

It's not that I've been lazing about, as my husband likes to say, "eating Bon Bons." (What ARE Bon Bons, by the way? They sound like something French and dirty.) So far today, I've fed my dog and child, helped my husband find his wallet, made up a grading calendar and graded assignments for an online writing class I'm teaching, checked both of my work email accounts, washed several loads of laundry, finished a novel assigned by my faculty advisor at Vermont College, and prepped and started a big, fat crockpot of turkey chili for tonight's supper. Yet, I'm still in my pajamas. If Publisher's Clearing House arrives at the door--like I'm sure they will since I've been filling out those daggum envelopes for years--I will be That Woman. You know, the one in her housecoat with the greasy hair, covering her face and shouting, "Oh, law, I can't believe I'm on T.V. like this!" Of course, I'll be in my cute Fair Isle pajamas.

This is all to say that in spite of each of the aforementioned tasks being important, I'm still procrastinating. Here's why:

I arrived home from Montpelier, Vermont and VCFA on Sunday, January 8, exhausted from travel and desperately happy to see my family. At the airport in Greenville, South Carolina, where I last landed, my two year-old towhead of a daughter broke from her father and sprinted through a crowd of people heading toward baggage claim, and leapt into my arms. My God--what a life! Two days after returning home, two of our best friends in the world and their twin 16 month-olds arrived at our tiny house in the mountains, and we had a wonderful few days together, eating and drinking and chasing kiddos and laughing with more friends. Then, my parents came to visit for the day before leaving on one of their many jaunts about the globe (they've been burning up the mountain highway to our house for, oh, the past 2 1/2 years). Then my husband and I poohed out a bit over the weekend. Sure, we went grocery shopping and cleaned up and played with our daughter and hiked with friends and I began cleaning my Jabba the Hut of a desk, but we poohed out.

Which brings us to today. I gave myself last week, as a gift, to regroup after the residency and to enjoy time with friends. But now it's time for the heavy lifting. For the work on the many, many pages of creative and critical writing I'm to mail to my advisor in three weeks. But I find myself, home again, willing to do anything else that needs doing in my house, other than write. Because writing is hard. And I'm a big, stinkin' mess of procrastination. The Pro-Crass-ti-nay-TOR: able to avoid the-thing-she-loves-doing-most in a single bound. More on this at a later date. (See: I'm sneaky.)

The residency itself was a good one, my first with Vermont College. The campus was snow-covered and lovely, the lectures for the most part interesting and helpful--some downright inspiring. The new friends, especially, a joy. Writers are a ridiculous, wonderful, ego-centric, odd, irreverent bunch, and it's always nice to be in the company of my people. Even the dorm room I stayed in--though some may disagree--wasn't so bad. Though I did feel, upon entering, a swift urge to paper the walls with Matthew McConaughey posters and blast the Dave Matthews Band. And order pizza at 3 a.m. And wear flip-flops. And go to breakfast wearing the same clothes I'd worn the night before. But I digress.

See, the dorm:

Not so bad, right? Bigger than my freshman year dorm room at Clemson. (On a side note, I slept like a rock in Vermont, woke each day bright-eyed at 6:30 a.m. Wierd.)

And the campus, small and lovely:

And Montpelier, the state capitol, only a ten minute's walk down the hill from the College. I spent quite a bit of time there with new friends and alone, dining and shopping and wandering:

Around the State House...

across foot bridges...

at the oft-frequented Postive Pie 2, our unofficial residency hangout, with new writer-friends Rachel and Kim ...

through the streets of town...

wandering neighborhoods, admiring the old Victorian homes and added-upon cottages... watching the Winooski River slowly freeze at its edges, despite the unseasonably warm weather...

hiking in icy Hubbard Park, with my new friend, writer Amy Wallen...

climbing the old tower there...

utilizing the Port-o-Potty (cutest I've ever seen... and yes, I've seen a few Port-o-Potties)...

It was heaven, that time in the woods. Even though I slipped on the ice and thought I fractured my elbow. But I digress.

So now I'm home, trying like all heck to organize my life, my work, my writing, my schooling, my family into one neat, color-coordinated schedule. I'm trying to figure out how I can do it all, and do it well.

I may give myself one more week....

Repeat the Sounding Joy

2011-12-21T11:41:00.001-05:00

Usually, I become a deep thinker at Christmas time. A ponderer. A sponge for the lovely, bittersweet, joyous and sometimes maudlin emotions winging out from most December souls. I can't help it: I'm a born empathizer. But at times, I even annoy myself.

This December, the season has been especially busy. I realize that I alone am not suffering under the hectic pace of the holidays, but for some reason I'm feeling it this year a bit more than usual. I've been trying to kick the feeling, and it's beginning to budge.

Last night, after my husband had returned from work and taken over toddler duty, I made a trip out for last-minute teacher gifts and groceries. My town was fairly empty, and the white lights lacing the trees on Main Street, the huge Christmas tree at the courthouse, the snowflakes on the power poles, they all glowed, dripping with rain. The grocery store was fairly calm, and I moved beneath the florescent lights from aisle to aisle in a bit of an exhausted trance. I didn't see anyone I knew, and this was a bit of a gift. It was nice to be alone.

On my way home, I couldn't help but drive slowly down my street, looking at the lights. Candles lit the windows of so many houses, and it seemed like even the most humble of apartment-dwellers had given in to the season, stringing a lone strand of fat colored bulbs up one railing. It made me smile. The glowing Santa statuette on my neighbor's lawn, these lights, my own, seemed suddenly a small reach for joy.

Yesterday before the evening store run, I'd put my toddler down for a nap like I always do, and had collapsed on the couch, quite literally unable to keep my eyes open. My limbs felt heavy, and welcoming blackness engulfed me. I may not have emerged for hours later, save for the incessent ringing of my cell phone and my daughter's wails over the monitor. I woke groggy, still caught by sleep, and stumbled to her room. It had been as if my body and my brain shook on it, and decided to take me by force.

My husband insists that this was my stress--work, home, motherhood, impending trip, Christmas business--having its way with me. He may be right, but it still feels strange. Stress? I have a great family, a home, an avocation, my health, and a Christmas tree. What do I truly have to be stressed about?

I think I just needed a nap. This is odd for me, as I'm a pretty peppy person. But I believe if I lie down, even now, I might sleep until Spring.

So, no nap. A shift, refocus. On Christmas--that most mysterious time, that awakening. Here's my recipe, if you will, for a return to Christmas cheer. (I cannot guaruntee this will work for you, should you be filled with Christmas ennui... but it does for me):

1. Throw off plans. If you need to order out for supper, do it. Ask for the Christmas burrito.

2. Sit in front of the fireplace until your back burns.

3. Read Christmas stories, to your kid(s), your significant other, your friends, heck--even the dog. I suggest Van Allsburg's The Polar Express. It doesn't get more magical than train of children chugging through a snow-filled forest, wolves pacing beneath the Christmas moon.

4. Eavesdrop at a small-town post office. Standing in line earlier this week I heard lovely Christmas greetings between friends old and new. There's nothing like a big, fat smile on a wrinkled face. Pure magic.

5. Watch Christmas movies, lots of them, whenever you can. Even if it's after midnight. I suggest: White Christmas, The Grinch Who Stole Christmas, The Family Stone, Love Actually, and, of course, It's a Wonderful Life. Forgo any sarcastic thought, any lingering of cheese. It's Christmas.

6. Step outside. Breathe deeply. Consider the sky: starry or dark, it's the same sky looked upon by the ancients, the holy, the sinner and the saint. It is full of Mystery. And that's okay.

Wishing all of you joy in this season of Light,

K

Happy Holidays! Or, As We Say in Russia, Весёлого Рождества!

2011-12-12T16:54:00.001-05:00

This was a major toddler morning.

For those of you who have kids, you'll know what I mean. For those of you who don't, simply picture a ten-car pile-up on the freeway, stir in a little background whining, some nuclear bombs exploding in the near distance, ten car alarms going off at once--and no one turning them off, and getting smacked in the face by an indignant little person. There, can you see it?

This was my morning. We were thirty-five minutes late to preschool, and I missed my twice-weekly hike in the national forest with my dog: a time I treasure, one I look forward to for days for the rich smell of the winter earth and the life-affirming cold of the air near the river, for the silence and the sight of my dog bounding up the trail ahead of me, for the thinking time. Instead, I barely managed to brush my teeth, throw on my bra and a fleece coat (I still wore the fleece pants I slept in), slap a toboggan on my head and tuck my daughter under my arm like Heisman, and make it to the school.

This was after the Mexican stand-off over the yogurt. It wasn't blueberry, and so really, it had it coming. The banana, bless its heart, became a giant crayon which my dear child used to smoosh into the coffee table, to "draw" with. It was World War III over the coat, the right cup, the treatment of the dog. I said "gentle hands" and other inanities so many times I think I'll change my name to Rainman.

I have a pint-sized problem.

She's my little Czarina. My precious little despot. A two year-old schizophrenic with dimples and a killer left-hook. Here's her photo. (See how tall she is? She did NOT get this from me. That, and the tyranny she gets from her father. The big mouth may be my fault.)

Do not be fooled by the blonde hair and the dimples. She's a tyrant, I tell you. A gorgeous little centuries-old Russian despot. The other day, the despot came with me to the post office, and the postmistress gave her a few Priority Mail stickers to keep her happy. I stuck them on her chest and told her I was shipping her to Siberia. Or maybe her grandparents'.

Learning how to be a mother, a wife, a college teacher, and a writer--not to mention a functioning friend, family member and a generally good person at Christmastime--has been tricky. I'm about to add graduate student to this mix, and I've really avoided thinking much about it. I'm not sure if this is wise, but it's the way I'm going about it. That is, until Dec. 28th, when I fly to Vermont for my first ten-day residency in the MFA in Writing program at the Vermont College of Fine Arts. A stack of manuscript pages for my first VCFA workshop (which I'm seriously excited about reading) I've had to put at the bottom of the pile of to-be-graded English final exams and essays on my desk, simply to keep them out of sight. Because, I lack self-control when it comes to reading. Last night, I almost lost my just arrived copy of Diana Gabaldon's The Scottish Prisoner to the lukewarm depths of my bath. Because I fell asleep there. (Not because of the novel--it's fantastic. Because I. am. officially. an. old. person.)

I'm not sure how some writers do it. There's this famous anecdote about best-selling romance novelist Nora Roberts, and how she wrote her first novels at the breakfast table while her boys were eating cereal. I am not Nora Roberts. (Sigh.) In my life, I think the cereal could become airborn. A spoon makes a good catapult... I'm sure my little pumpkin pie would figure that out pretty quickly. She's sly. Maybe she's not Russian. Hidden beneath that exterior of sweetness is the soul of a secret agent. Maybe she's Mossad.

I swear I'm doing almost everything I can to spread Christmas joy. To be enveloped by the magic of the season, a magic I have so genuinely believed in since childhood. Our house is lit with white lights, candles in the windows; our tree is small but hardy, full of glowing bubble lights and beloved ornaments, our stockings hung by the chimney with care, our manger scene placed just out of the sweet little puddin' pie tyrant's reach. Heck, there's even a Santa hat on the rocking horse. We dig Christmas in this family, let me tell you.

See, here we are, enjoying Christmas. Look how calm the despot is. Can you see that blue hundred-yard stare? I think she's just biding her time.

Perhaps I can make a deal with that sweet little schizophrenic Czarina: give me back my precious toddler of yore, and you may return at 16. We'll even let you obscond with the peasants. But despots don't make deals, do they? I think I remember this from World History. They lop off heads. Or utilize efficient firing squads. So maybe I'll lay low, hide behind the dog, play "Frosty the Snowman" on the DVD player as many times as I possibly can, at least until my husband gets home. Until then, writing anything except for this blog post may have to be put on the back-burner, sad as it makes me.

Because a girl's got to make it through the day, нет?

Special Review Copies of Keowee Valley are Here!

2011-11-14T16:11:00.001-05:00

A big, beautiful, brown box arrived at my door recently, bearing within it the Special Format Review Copies of my forthcoming historical novel, Keowee Valley. Since my two year-old was napping, I hefted the box in my arms, tip-toed across the hardwood floors of our 1940s house--trying not to trip over the 88 lb black lab at my heels--whipped a knife out of the chopping block, and went to town. I'd like to say that I slit open that box with the elegant precision of a heart surgeon, but since this is a moment I've been dreaming about since I was about 12 years old, I abandoned the knife halfway through and ripped, packing tape be damned.

I have to admit, it's a bit disconcerting to see your own face and name (in my case, three of them) on the covers of an 8 x 10 copy of a manuscript that you know, in less than a year, will be a book. I set the box beside my desk, which currently resembles a Jabba the Hut of exploding English essays, and stared at it. I gave it a wide berth on my way to other rooms. I eyed it warily, as if it'd pounce. And then I got to work.

Finding the right people--authors, industry experts, etc--to review your novel and to perhaps provide a blurb or quote (or, God willing, praise) for it, is an interesting process, one into which I'm delving for the first time. A while back, after I'd finished the novel and found my literary agent, I did some big dreaming, forming a wish-list of authors for the job. Now that my novel has a home with Bell Bridge Books, and I've got those big, beautiful review copies in hand, that list has become a very real starting point--and a bit intimidating. Trying to convince experienced authors (some pretty darn famous) to take a chance on a debut novel and its fledgling writer is a much tougher process than you'd think.

So, I've reached out via whatever method I've found--email, Facebook, home addresses, agent addresses--with a letter of introduction and an earnest, honest request. I know that I'll be refused by most--they have, after all, their own novels and jobs and families tugging at their time--but maybe, just maybe, one of them will remember what it was like to be in my shoes, and give me a chance. It'll be interesting to see who does.

One very welcoming group I've discovered: bloggers. I've already had some great blogger/book reviewers request to read the novel and review it, and I'm hoping to discover plenty more. I just adore folks who love books, and love talking about books: they are my people.

My publisher will be sending out review copies to pertinent reviewers as well, but I'm all about being an active participant in the process. I think it's an adventure. And as anyone who knows me can tell you, I'm a sucker for a good adventure.

Stay tuned!

And, just because it makes me grin like a giddy kid, here's another photo of the Special Format Review copy of Keowee Valley:

Live from Asheville, it's...

2011-10-10T15:47:00.002-04:00

As most of you know, my debut historical novel, Keowee Valley, will be published by Bell Bridge Books in August 2012 (HOO-rah). This Thursday, I'm going to get a chance to talk about the novel (and other things) live and on-the-air.

Here are the details:

On Thursday, Oct. 13 from 11 a.m. to noon, my teacher-writer colleague, Jennifer McGaha, and I will be live with Asheville, N.C. radio station 103.5 FM, in a segment called "Asheville and the Arts" with host Carol Anders. We'll be talking about writing, publishing, our current projects, and reading from our work. If you're in the Asheville area, please tune in! But if you're not, you can catch the program streaming live from the station web site: http://www.main-fm.org/. (Click the "listen" button at the upper left-hand corner of the page.)

(On a side note, my college students were simply disconsolate at the news that they won't have to come to English class that morning. I just don't know what they'll do.)

The Flurry of Fall

2011-09-21T11:34:00.000-04:00

Though Friday is officially this year's first day of Fall, here in the mountains of Western North Carolina it's arrived early: bringing with it cooler temperatures, chilly rain, tulip poplars already yellowing, and, in our family, the annual advance into the attic.

Our house, a small bungalow-type with a random 1950s addition, was built in either 1948 or 1949, and our attic is a walk-up: albeit, precarious and musty, but still a generous space--which in our case means plenty of room for a multiplying assortment of plastic bins. Last winter, our fifth as a married couple in the mountains, my husband trekked into said attic and in a move of sheer valiance (and desperation) spent several weeks laying out insulation. (Our sweet house lacks insulation in the walls, in the attic, in the floors, and we keep it COLD.) The arrival of our daughter insisted we warm things up a bit. Honestly, it gets old seeing your breath crystallize before your face as you huddle in your bed beneath sheets, a fleece blanket, and a corduroy quilt the width and depth of Texas. So stay posted, this winter, to see how we fare. Ha.

Last week, I made the first journey into the attic for the winter clothes. This is an inaugural trip, and I look forward to it. I love digging through my favorite fleece jackets, winter boots, toboggan hats and scarves; love shaking out my favorite pair of corduroys, my plaid flannel shirts I've hung onto since the grungy '90s. Despite the dusty, musty smell, and the knowledge that I've got several loads of laundry to do and an insurgence to launch against the summer clothes occupying my closet, this ritual is a precursor to my absolute favorite time of year. Once I've done this, Fall may just be a little bit closer. (Two other rituals of the cinematic type include watching Runaway Bride--who doesn't love rural Maryland in Autumn, small-town shenanigans, and a little Julia Roberts/Richard Gere action?--and also pulling out my complete seasons of the Gilmore Girls. For some reason, I'm hooked on cool-weather settings, small towns, and witty dialogue. For some reason, it makes me feel like Fall.)

Yummy Richard Gere with his yummy silver hair. Gorgeous Julia. On horseback. Gotta love it.

Picturesque Stars Hollow, Connecticut. Yes, it's fictional, but I miss it; I do.

Moving along. This time of year, things are in a flurry. There are my classes to be taught (if you saw the state of my desk, and the stacks of papers to be graded--by tomorrow--you'd wrinkle your nose in disgust), my daughter to get squared away at preschool, my house to be cleaned and dusted and prepared for closed windows and heat, a lot of football to be watched, a website to be created (for my novel, Keowee Valley, forthcoming from Bell Bridge Books in Fall 2012... cough), writing--any writing--to be done, a yard to be cleaned and a wilting summer garden to be cleared, and a decidedly insane (though inspired) journey back to graduate school--and all the work this entails--for which to be prepared. I've also got to actually pay attention to my husband. Really. The man gets lost in the shuffle, and though he's understanding about it, I'd like to remedy that.

In the midst of the flurry, I am determined to live deliberately. To embrace the chaos. To become adept at my many roles. I swear it: the attempt will be worthy.

In other news, I'm still doing the happy dance (even in public) about my novel being published by BelleBooks/Bell Bridge Books in Fall of next year. The official title: Keowee Valley. My official "author name": Katherine Scott Crawford. (Which is my real name, by the way. Really.) Currently, I'm working on the author/novel website and on building social media with two friends, high school buddies who are web designing and PR pros. My husband, a marketing guy, is set to be guru. I'm hoping to have these things--web site, Facebook site, etc--up and running by the end of this year. Then, in January, editing should begin on my novel, and I couldn't be more excited and ready for, and open to, the entire process.

In the meantime, I'm looking for advice for managing the chaos, embracing the moment, and enjoying Fall to the fullest. On the menu: cooking black bean chili later today, heading to Death Valley to watch Clemson play (and hopefully, whup up on--sorry, Seminole fans) Florida State on Saturday, grading essays while possibly enjoying some Gere/Roberts repartee (don't tell my students), and apple-picking at a local orchard with family and friends, later in the month.

What are your big plans for the Fall? Here is my dog's plan:

End of an Era

2011-08-17T10:18:00.008-04:00

Four years ago on an October afternoon, I was driving away from the Gallatin Field Airport in a purple P.T. Cruiser and into the curving gold of the Montana hills. I had a Montana highway map and a fat mug of airport coffee on the seat beside me, and my husband on the cell phone; he was following my route from his office back in North Carolina. The day was deepening, hills growing subtly darker, and as I drove the snow-capped Rockies began to engulf my little car. I felt free and fine as a bird in flight.

I started this blog because of that trip: I'd been awarded a full fellowship to the Montana Artist Refuge, an artists' enclave in a tiny, former mining town in Southwestern Montana called Basin, and I wanted an easy way to keep family and friends posted while I was there.

The fellowship couldn't have come at a better time. My husband and I had been married a little over three years, I was teaching as an adjunct English professor at a small, liberal arts college in Western North Carolina--a job I loved and poured my energies into, but one that took its toll on my writing (and our meager finances)--and I'd just begun to emotionally recover from a miscarriage that had occurred only four months before. An adventure was in order.

So many wonderful things came of my time at the Montana Artists Refuge, most of which are chronicled in my earliest blog posts from 2007 (see "Bring it On, Big Sky" to start). I wrote, and wrote; I slept alone for the first time in years. I hiked, and hiked, in some of the most incredibly stunning and patently visceral country I've seen in my life. And, I made a great friend. An essay I wrote about my time at MAR, "Deep Breathing Under Big Sky," won Third Place in the Santa Fe Writers' Project 2007 Literary Awards Program, judged by Pulitzer Prize-winning author Robert Olen Butler. But so much more than this came of that one shining month.

I felt like a writer. Sitting in that sparse room at my laptop, away from my world at home; hiking through the snow; talking and laughing with other writers; driving my ridiculous car to places I'd only dreamt about, like mysterious Yellowstone National Park and the haunting Big Hole Battlefield; floating weightlessly in the Boulder Hot Springs, talking of life with a friend and watching mule deer venture forth from dusk-lit spruce; buying groceries like a local in Butte; giving a novel reading at the Helena Book Festival; and doing it all courtesy of a fellowship: this was something BIG. It gave me hope.

Virginia knew what she was talking about when she said that in order to write, "a woman must have ... a room of her own."

Sadly, the place and the people that gave me my first true room of my own are closing their doors. These brutal economic times are taking their toll, and many are suffering, including the Arts and the Montana Artists Refuge. I can never repay their generosity, their hope in me, with neither words nor money--though I've attempted with both.

When I left the Montana Artists Refuge there was snow on the ground. Yellowstone National Park had closed to motorized vehicles for the winter, the highways and roads in the high mountain passes were littered with gravel, and I felt, driving away from it all, certain that I'd return.

I was, just maybe, a writer.

A Sale, a Start

2011-08-10T10:43:00.007-04:00

Good things DO come to those who wait. (And persevere. And pray. But that's another story.)

I'm pleased to announce that I've sold my novel, KEOWEE VALLEY. A mainstream historical adventure and romance, it will be published in Fall 2012 by Bell Bridge Books. Set in the Revolutionary-era Carolinas and in the Cherokee Country, it's part the story of an independent young woman making a new life for herself against all odds, and part the story of an incredibly beautiful and dangerous country--and a mysterious, powerful people on the verge of life-altering change.

Whew. It's difficult to describe a 450+ page novel, particularly your own. I plan to get better at this as the year moves forward. The Publisher's Marketplace announcement does a much better job.

I couldn't be happier with my publisher(s). Bell Bridge Books is an imprint of Belle Books, a small to mid-sized (depending on whom you ask) press based in Memphis, T.N., which was founded and is run by smart, savvy women--most of them prolific authors. I had a chance to meet three of them in Asheville, N.C. a couple of weeks ago, and I walked away sure of my choice and hopeful for the future of my novel and my career. (I think I floated down the street. I wonder if anyone noticed?)

Going with a smaller press has many advantages, one of them being the opportunity to formulate and enact my own marketing plan in addition to the publishers'. So, while editing on the novel won't start until after the new year, I'm going to take the Fall to build a web site and to develop other opportunities for social media, etc. I've got some great guys helping me--my husband, and two of my best friends from high school--who are all experts in their fields (marketing and public relations).

This is going to be fun!

More about the process to come in the following weeks and months....

Teach Your Children Well

2011-08-01T15:32:00.005-04:00

In life, there are the big moments--movie climax moments, when the sun is setting and the important music is playing, the music crescendoing, when everything becomes golden and exciting and full of promise--and then there are the small moments, when the background music is the hum of the neighbor's lawn mower, the feel is the touch of a hand, the knowledge settling that there is hope to be had in the next week, the next day, the next few minutes.

It takes quite a while to understand that we've got it all backwards; we've let our lesser selves pull a switcheroo. The big moments, truly, are the small ones.

My daughter turned two years old on Friday. This is not a huge deal--toddlers turn two to parents around the world, even parents like my husband and me, every single day. Bigger stuff has happened. This event, instead, was a small moment--of the best kind. We celebrated with friends and family and balloons and cake and sprinklers and hot dogs. We dealt with the after-effects of a sugar high (courtesy of a massive cupcake my husband and I thought would be fun to give our daughter the night of her real birthday) and over-stimulation (courtesy of the crazy backyard waterfest that edged into naptime on the day we threw her party, in addition to a trio of far-too exciting overnight guests: her aunts and cousin).

She is a bundle of energy and emotion and joy and inconsistency and imagination, our daughter. And for the past two years, we have managed to keep her safe, clean and healthy--and, I believe, happy. (Okay, this possibly qualifies as a big deal.) We're even a little proud of ourselves.

I hope, that in a world full of stimuli insisting that it is only the big moments that matter--the graduations, the big kisses, the rings and the Christmas mornings, bright lights and big city--we'll be able to teach her about the joy in the small things, the common things, the everyday gifts: the sight of stars, the special letter in the mail, the smile from a stranger, cool water on a sweltering summer day, a face full of cupcake.

That these moments are more than enough.

Blurb in The Transylvania Times

2011-06-16T18:09:00.003-04:00

A blurb about a few of my recent publications and awards was included in The Transylvania Times, our local paper. To view it, click the title of this post.

And please, feel free to mock the "glamour shot."

* Coming soon: The promised post on (finally) choosing my low residency MFA in Writing program.

The Choice: Deciding on a Low Residency MFA in Writing Program

2011-06-15T08:25:00.026-04:00

First of all, my apologies for the tardiness of this post, which was promised weeks ago. Choosing which low residency MFA in Writing program to attend has been an arduous and brain-freezing task--a decision that lately rivaled the one to have children. But, it's been made (can you hear the cheering and yahooing in the distance? That's the sound of my husband and friends, celebrating the end of the madness).

I will be attending Vermont College of Fine Arts. My first residency is this coming winter.

If you're reading this post, chances are you're a family member or friend of mine, or--and here's what I'm hoping--you are, like I was, attempting to choose a low residency MFA in Writing program.

There's quite a bit of information out there in the universe--some useful, some not--about how to go about this process. In this post I'll describe my process, in hopes that it may aid others. I'll address elements of the decision that I did not see covered in the many books, articles, and blogs already published on the subject, I'll share my research materials, and I'll talk about my interactions with each program.

Please note that deciding on a graduate program is an intensely personal process: when it comes down to it, and the research has been exhausted, you just have to "go with your gut." Annoying as hell to hear, right? But it's true.

Off we go:

* For a bit of background information about my thoughts on the decision to return to graduate school, see "Once More Into the Breach," posted on April 4, 2011.

First, I decided on low residency programs, instead of traditional. This was easy: I've a husband, daughter, dog, and mortgage, among other things, that keep me rooted. Second, I chose seven programs to which I'd apply: (these are in no particular order)

1. Pacific University
2. University of New Orleans
3. Lesley University
4. Goddard College
5. Queens University of Charlotte
6. Vermont College of Fine Arts
7. Spalding University

The reasoning behind this initial culling (there are over 100 low residency programs in the U.S. at this time) was simple:

1. Pacific: I'd always wanted to spend time in the Pacific Northwest, I think they have the most aesthetically pleasing website and program information, and Pam Houston--a long-time favorite of mine--teaches there.

2. University of New Orleans: The study abroad aspects of the program (you must spend a month abroad each summer to complete the low residency degree) were enticing.

3. Lesley University: Reputation was a big factor; also, the idea of being in such a literary epicenter like Cambridge was appealing.

4. Goddard College: Reputation, certainly. A chance to be in Vermont.

5. Queens University: Living in N.C., I'd recently become familiar with this newer program, which had been gaining favor and hiring some authors I admire, like Elizabeth Strout.

6. Vermont College of Fine Arts: First and foremost: reputation. And, the chance to study either in Vermont (a state I'd fallen in love with during a writer's residency a few years ago) or abroad, with top faculty and writers... many who'd earned their MFAs from Iowa. Also: alumni publishing success.

7. Spalding University: Only 6 hours from where I live, with an innovative "flexible scheduling" that allowed for mixing 6-month and 9-month long semsters, study abroad options, a chance to study cross-genre (my areas of interest: fiction and creative nonfiction). Also liked the fact that the program director, Sena Jeter Naslund, published successful historical fiction--my own genre.

**Though I know one has to take ranking with a "grain of salt," six of the seven programs were included in Atlantic Monthly's "Best of the Best" and in Poet's and Writers "Top Ten Low Residency Programs." Most had been in the top ten in any sort of rankings taken over the past ten years, especially Vermont College (#1 or tied for first each year).

So, in the Fall of 2010 I worked on my writing samples, garnered my recommendations, ordered transcripts, and applied. By March 2011, I'd heard from most schools. I was rejected by Queens and Lesley, and accepted by Pacific, Vermont College (VCFA), Goddard, UNO (University of New Orleans), and Spalding.

I heard from UNO and Spalding first, then Pacific, VCFA, and Goddard. Queens and Lesley came in so much later than the others--I'd had to contact both to check in--that by that point I'd already culled the group, in my mind at least, to Pacific, VCFA, and Spalding. (Note: Goddard did come back onto my radar after a great conversation with the interim program director, Elena Georgiou, who took special note of my love of writing historical fiction, and steered me to the writings of a similar faculty member.)

When I'd initially started thinking about heading back to graduate school, it was the summer of 2008. Though my application process was cut short by the unexpected news that I was pregnant, I had already done quite a bit of thinking about where I'd like to go. For some reason--mainly the idea of traveling to the Pacific Northwest and studying with Pam Houston, Pacific became my #1. When, last year, I started and completed the application process, I still felt the same way.

After being accepted to programs, I did everything possible in order to narrow down my choices: talked to faculty, alumni, current students, administrators; looked at rankings and placement; studied each school's literature (especially faculty bios and mentoring philosophies); considered all costs, including possible scholarship and assistantship options; hounded my friends and family (some of whom are professors); spent late nights with my husband just hashing it all out ("it's your choice," was his oft-repeated reply); looked at study abroad options and whether it'd actually be feasible for me to factor this in (what with the daughter, husband, and dog); and researched websites, blogs, and books about the MFA in Writing.

In the end, I even resorted to coin tossing.

The resources I consulted:

Publications
The Low-Residency MFA Handbook by Lori A. May
The Creative Writing MFA Handbook by Tom Kealey
Poets & Writers magazine (in addition to perusing years of articles on the MFA in Writing, I spent quite a bit of time at the Speakeasy, their forum)
The Association of Writers and Writing Programs
The Writer's Chronicle magazine (from the AWP)
The Atlantic Monthly magazine
Assorted essays by Linda Formichelli, Erika Dreifus, Seth Abramson, etc.
Blogs
www.sethabramson.blogspot.com "Seth Abramson"
www.bestdamncreativewritingblog.com "The Best Damn Creative Writing Blog"
www.creative-writing-mfa-handbook.blogspot.com "The Creative Writing MFA Blog"
www.erikadreifus.com/blogs/practicing-writing/ "Practicing Writing"
Any blog by any graduate of the programs I was considering.

One thing that made my decision different: I am already an adjunct instructor of English at 4-year and community colleges. A specific reason for me to earn a terminal degree in writing is to have the necessary degree to be competitive for a full-time, tenure track position at a college or university. (I know that a MFA is not a job quarantee, but the sad fact is that if you haven't published a book or books yet, and you want a full-time position in higher ed teaching writing, this degree is necessary.)

So, my search changed. I began to consider: which programs graduated alumni who garnered full-time teaching jobs? Which program would make me the most competitive in the higher ed workforce?

What I learned, from conversations with several folks in higher ed (including, but not limited to, graduate school MA in English professors, undergraduate writing professors, administrators, and my current boss, who is head of the humanities division at a small, liberal arts college) is that "pedigree" matters. The reputation of the school from which you will have earned your MFA degree matters... a lot. After publications, of course.

While many of these people did profess that rankings are a crap-shoot, and that I should go where my "gut" tells me, several did admit that when it comes to larger state universities (the sort of places I'd like to work), English departments aren't as hip to writing programs--so, they look at the more (dare I say) superficial qualities of a candidate, like where the degree was earned.

I had to take into consideration the fact that when I do complete my MFA in Writing and am searching for a full-time position, I will be competing (in an already saturated market) with other candidates who've earned their MFAs from traditional, residential programs. And though low residency programs are gaining ground and beginning to be respected by highering committees, there are still many programs that refuse to give them as much credit as the traditional degree. (Consider the faculty member at the University of Georgia, who revealed in an email that going for a low residency MFA "just wasn't worth it." Ouch.)

The main bit of advice from each higher ed type: It's your publications that get you the job. Then, your credentials. One former professor of mine said, "When it comes to getting a job teaching writing, it's all about your publications and who you know."

But not a single publication I'd consulted weighed, in any manner, which low residency program would most aid a writer-teacher in finding a job. Here, I was on my own. And though it's easy to argue with rankings, the fact that VCFA had been #1 in placement for the past several years means something to me. This is not the case for everyone, of course: many, if not most, people considering or currently working towards their low residency degree in writing already have full-time jobs and don't plan on quitting them. Most simply want to develop their craft, to become better writers.

Becoming a better writer is, of course, the ultimate goal of a MFA in Writing. It's imperative that a potential MFA student look into which programs provide the best teacher-writers--those writers commited to his or her students' work and progress. Like the "which program will help me get a job" category, this one, too, is mostly unquantifiable. What's left to us here are teaching philosophies and faculty bios. Those can and should be studied as closely as possible. I searched each faculty member of the programs I was considering, researched their websites and publications, looked into the English departments at the schools where they teach, and at where they earned their own writing degrees. But again, it's a crap-shoot.

* In addition, I looked at the faculty of several small-to-large universities in my area, in order to discover where they had earned their terminal degrees. I considered faculty at places like Clemson University, the University of South Carolina, the University of Georgia, Georgia Tech, Western Carolina Univeristy, the University of North Carolina (at Chapel Hill, Asheville, Wilmington), N.C. State, the College of Charleston, Winthrop University, Converse College, Presbyterian College, Charleston Southern, Coastal Carolina University, etc. Most had earned their degrees from traditional MFA in Writing programs, or earned PhDs in English.

When my husband and I began talking finances, I was forced to give up on my initial dream of attending Pacific. The cost here, mainly for travel (I live on the East Coast), would be too high. There aren't as many options for cross-genre study there, something in which I'm interested. I'd been accepted only in Fiction (as choosing one genre is the only option) at Pacific, while at Spalding and VCFA I'd been accepted in both Fiction and Creative Nonfiction.

Now it was down to two: Spalding and VCFA.

Spalding has so many things going for it: a study abroad option, cross-genre study, flexible scheduling, very, very happy and satisfied alumni, and a great spokeperson in Associate Program Director Kathleen Driskell. Kathleen was (and is) knowledgeable, genuinely friendly, easy to talk with, and willing to go out of her way to answer questions and to try to get the potential student the help she needs. Another item in the Spalding "yes" column: a small merit scholarship, and an assistantship working as a student editor and reader for The Louisville Review for as many semesters as I'd like. (Spalding is the rare low residency program that offers financial assistance.) In addition, Kathleen made it clear that Spalding really wanted me to come there--that they were excited and happy about me being part of their program. (This enthusiasm was the exception to the rule with other programs.) Spalding was rapidly becoming a program I'd have a hard time turning down.

VCFA also has a great spokesperson in Louise Crowley, who answered all my questions, spoke honestly and often with me about the rigors of the program and the small possibilities for financial assistance (outside of student loans, of course). The program at VCFA is long and lauded, and Louise is experienced and friendly. She immediately sent me a packet of information that included a sample residency schedule and course offerings, which were varied and exciting. The study abroad option at VFCA is unique in that it is ten days, and takes place in lieu of (and at the same time as) the Vermont residency, so a student can choose which to attend. This was quite appealing to me, as I'm a travel junkie with a family--the least disruptive the travel is to my family calendar, the better. And though the Vermont website does not supply nearly the amount of information the Spalding site does, it does provide faculty teaching philosophies, and these I found enlightening and helpful.

Both programs--Spalding's and VCFA's--provided information on alumni successes (i.e. books published). Both are impressive, but VCFA, being around for longer, seemed to have a great number of alumni publishing books.

I tortured myself (and my husband) with the decision. In an unethical move I'm not proud of, I resorted to telling both schools "yes" so I'd have longer to make my decision... a decision I quite literally could not make. One week, I'd be sure of one school, and the next I'd change my mind to the other. I went on long hikes with my dog, prayed about it, meditated about it, and drove my friends and family crazy asking the same questions over and over again.

I'd applied to the two schools for different reasons: Spalding, because it was new and innovative and I'd heard good things, and VCFA, because I knew its stellar reputation and was sure I wouldn't have a chance of getting in. When Spalding rose to the top for a variety of reasons, and I was actually accepted to VCFA, I was stumped. Hornswoggled. Flummoxed, discombobulated and foxed.

In the end, I just couldn't let the idea of VCFA go. I tried, but I couldn't. And I was utterly exhausted by the process. It doesn't hurt to add that my husband really wanted me to go to VCFA. And so the choice was made.

I'm thrilled about the decision, anxious about the affects on my family, but excited to begin. I'm ready to move ahead with my craft and my career.

Note: This is just my process, and everyone does it differently. If you are considering a MFA in Writing, or are trying to decide between programs, I wish you the best of luck. Because I've been in the trenches, so to speak, I'm more than happy to answer any questions.

Here Comes The Sun

2011-04-13T10:13:00.004-04:00

Writers, like everyone else in this world, need refreshing--renewal--a shake up from the ordinary. We are like exercisers constantly moving along the same route: up that hill, round that corner, past that mailbox, home. After a while, our bodies, like our minds, dig in their heels... and there's no pushing past plateau unless we change the routine.

For me, the routine itself has always been a struggle, especially when I became pregnant with my daughter, and even moreso after she was born. I feel like a rock star when on the occasional day I'm able to dress her properly, play with her, feed her, grade a few English papers, check email, pet my dog, maybe get in a walk, wash a load of clothes, and hug my husband. Lately (okay, shamefully, lately has been over a year), writing creatively--my passion, my reason--has slipped from the to-do list. I'd been feeling like the out-of-shape former athlete (which, sadly, I guess I sort of am) who's terrified to tackle the hill. What if I can't get it back, that spark? What if someone sees me, fat and failing and out of breath?

Enter: the good folks at The Sun magazine. Several months ago, I'd seen an advertisement for a writing retreat/workshops weekend the magazine was holding in Little Switzerland, North Carolina--only an hour and a half from where I live. Called "Into the Fire: The Sun Celebrates Personal Writing," its schedule was packed with authors and teachers, writers' panels and workshops with intriguing titles. Since I'd been a long-time fan of the publication and the unique place it's carved for itself in the magazine world, I knew it'd be great. But the cost: ouch. There was no way we (my husband and I) could afford for me to go.

But, there was a scholarship opportunity. So, I applied, thinking that surely there was no way I'd win one, but knowing--from previous experience garnering fellowships and grants--that it's always worth a try. Thankfully, I received an email from The Sun's Krista Bremer, notifiying me that they'd like to offer me a scholarship.

So, while my husband took solo care of the daughter and the dog with no complaints (amazing partner that he is), I headed off to Wildacres Retreat, a mountaintop "resort" in McDowell County, less than a couple hundred yards from the Blue Ridge Parkway. I went blind--knowing no other participants, not even my roommate.

The weekend was lovely, my roommate was lovely, the authors/workshop leaders were free with their time and talent, and other participants free with their friendship and stories. I attended workshops led by Krista Bremer, among others, whose generous teaching combo of helpful writing strategies, examples and insights into her own brilliant work, and inspiration for our own will I'm certain aid me as both writer and teacher in the future. I listened to Sy Syfransky, editor of The Sun, read quietly from his personal notebooks, and remembered that there are everyday philosophers, of this time, whose capacity for insight and beauty can still astound and salve. I chatted with tablemates over marshmellow-topped sweet potato pie and coffee, reminding myself of the sheer pleasure in introductions, in the sweet manners of my youth.

I watched as grey-white fog settled into the coves of the mountains below us, socking in the valleys and not moving until mid-day. I rocked in rockingchairs, pressed my back against the stone of a small amphitheatre and my backside into the wet ground, and watched heavy, round-bottomed rain clouds move in purple from the west over Mt. Mitchell, over ancient, softly rounded peaks. I got to think. I got to let go. I was able to breathe.

This morning, I subscribed to The Sun, despite the fact that my walking shoes have holes in the soles, I get a haircut once a year, and we rarely buy groceries without coupons. Any magazine who can offer me such awakening deserves my readership.

* On a side note, I have "almost" chosen my MFA in Writing Program. No, I'm not willing to talk about it yet. Soon.

Once More Into the Breach

2011-04-04T13:10:00.011-04:00

Dear friends, once more.

If you've been following here, you'll know that over the winter I made the decision to apply for my MFA in Writing. I'm choosing to return to graduate school for two reasons: 1) I'm eager (some might say desperate) to become a better writer, and 2) I need a terminal degree so that perhaps, maybe, hopefully one day I can garner a full-time teaching position at a college or university. This dual career--writer-teacher--is one I've been working toward all of my adult life and much of my childhood.

My writer-teacher career got off to a pretty good start, but has become rocky over the past few years (though some may disagree): I worked in the experiential/outdoor education field for quite some time, had a stint as a newspaper reporter, earned a MA in English, and have been teaching composition and literature courses at community and 4-year colleges ever since. Three and a half years ago I completed an historical novel (after researching and writing for a year and a half), acquired a literary agent, but haven't had luck finding a publisher... which has been frustrating and even a bit demoralizing, to say the least. I've published in regional newspapers and magazines and nationally reknowned literary journals, and I've won a few contests and had the pleasure and joy of participating in some great writer's residencies, one due to winning a North Carolina Arts Award, of which I'm especially proud. But that's not the point.

The point is: I want to become a better writer.

And so, it's back to graduate school for me, this time for the terminal degree in my field. I applied to low residency programs (I have a husband, toddler, and house, so moving isn't an option) at the following schools:

Pacific University

Spalding University

University of New Orleans

Vermont College of Fine Arts

Goddard College

Lesley University

Queens University of Charlotte

Thankfully and wonderfully, I have been accepted to Pacific, Spalding, UNO, Vermont College, and Goddard. I'm thrilled that these fine institutions think enough of my talent and promise as a writer to ask me to join their writing communities. But now's the tough part. I have to decide.

To be honest, it's keeping me up at night. I've not been sleeping well for the past two weeks (and neither has my poor husband). I've done all the research I can, read the right books, talked to the right people. I've narrowed it down to two schools, which, out of respect and since I haven't officially "accepted my acceptance" anywhere yet, I won't mention here... yet. But these last two schools, and the deciding between them, is quite literally making my head ache. I know I can't go wrong with either, that I'd have a great experience at both, and that what I do with the degree is up to me.

However, I'm still pondering this unqualifiable program characteristic: the power of "pedigree." Writing the word "pedigree" creeps me out, but it's a sad but true fact of academia--where you got your degree matters. Would I be hurting my (somewhat future) teaching career--because I know I wouldn't hurt a writing career, not by any stretch--by not attending a top ranked school?

It's a point to ponder. And ponder it I will, again, all day and probably into tonight. Look for a future post about what I finally decide, to come later this week. And one, after, about how I came to the decision (i.e. my research, other tools, the process). As I know from personal experience, there's a great lot and a great little information out there in cyberspace, about going for your MFA in Writing--and sometimes, a first-hand account can be helpful.

Happy Monday!

Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award Update

2011-03-27T15:43:00.002-04:00

Last month I submitted my historical novel, Keowee, to the 2011 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award contest. Here's an update:

Keowee made it past the Pitch round to the second round, and is now a Quarter-Finalist.

Excerpts are up from all the Quarterfinalists, and are available to read at www.amazon.com/abna. To read an excerpt of my novel, go to the left side of page, see "Quarter-Finalists by Category," click on "Historical Fiction," and look for Keowee by K.S. Crawford. If you have a Kindle, you can download the excerpt for free; if you have a PC or Mac, you can download "Kindle for PC or Mac" for free and read it that way.

If you're interested, you can also review the excerpt and give it a rating (between 1 and 5 stars). Please be kind (she asks humbly).

This is pretty exciting stuff, and I'm grateful and of course a wee bit proud. The going gets hairy from here: judges narrow the 250 Quarter-Finalists (in Fiction) down to 50 Semi-Finalists; those results will be posted on or around April 26, 2011.

Irish Blessings

2011-03-17T11:32:00.002-04:00

Happy St. Patrick's Day to all!

As has become my tradition, I offer, gentle readers, a multitude of Irish blessings, prayers and quotations for your St. Patrick's Day pleasure. Erin go bragh!

"May the face of every good news and the back of every bad news be toward us."

"May the good Lord take a liking to you... but not too soon!"

"May you always have a clean shirt, a clean conscience, and a guinea in your pocket!"

Deep peace of the running waves to you.

Deep peace of the flowing air to you.

Deep peace of the smiling stars to you.

Deep peace of the quiet earth to you.

Deep peace of the watching shepherds to you.

Deep peace of the Son of Peace to you.

~ Gaelic prayer

"May you have warm words on a cold evening, a full moon on a dark night, and the road downhill all the way to your door."

God bless the poor,

God bless the sick,

God bless our human race;

God bless our food,

God bless our drink

And our homes, O God, embrace.

~ St. Brigid of Kildare, 6th century Irish cleric

Calm be thy sleep as infants' slumbers!

Pure as angel thoughts thy dreams!

May every joy this bright world numbers

Shed o'er thee their mingled beams!

~ Thomas Moore, Irish songwriter (1779-1852)

"May your home always be too small to hold all of your friends."

"Bless you and yours as well as the cottage you live in. May the roof overhead be well hatched and those inside be well matched."

"May there be a generation of children on the children of your children."

Health and a long life to you.

Land without rent to you.

A child every year to you.

And if you can't go to heaven,

May you at least die in Ireland.

If ever I'm a money'd man, I mean, please God, to cast

My golden anchor in the place where youthful years were pass'd

Though heads that bow are black and brown must meanwhile gather grey

New faces rise by every hearth, and old ones drop away--

Yet dearer still that Irish hill than all the world beside;

It's home, sweet home, where'er I roam, through lands and waters wide.

And if the Lord allows me, I surely will return

To my native Ballyshannon, and the winding banks of Erne.

~ William Allingham, Irish poet (1824-1889)

I will rise and go now, for always

Night and day

I hear lake water lapping with low

Sounds by the shore;

While I stand on the roadway, or on

The pavements grey,

I hear it in the deep heart's core.

~ W.B. Yeats, Irish writer and statesman (1865-1939)

"May your blessings outnumber the shamrocks that grow, and may trouble avoid you wherever you go."

Ireland,

it's the one place on earth

that heaven has kissed

with melody, mirth,

and meadow and mist.

Ode to Late February

2011-02-22T10:32:00.006-05:00

Late February is a tease, a come hither thrown over the shoulder of an appealing stranger in a crowd--a hip cock from an insouciant teenager. It's the warm breath of an almost-kiss, an already-broken promise from an unrepentant sinner.

Late February knows no moral bounds; it's a trust-funder ever at leisure, uncaring at the change of weather or the stock market or the law. Late February is a short season of caprice: a temptor with a bedroom-eye on the prize... a dangerously attractive schizophrenic capable of both astonishing ire and lazy charm, often one within moments of the other.

Late February is a liar, this I know. It woos with warm mornings and birdsong. It's a wronged lover still powerful, the kind who slips benignly back into your life emitting the heady perfume of the past and then snaps out, fangs exposed, to bring blood.

Late February makes promises of yellow daffodil and blue sky, of skin exposed and sun on an upturned face. Late February is a fifteen year-old lacking control of his hormones. It's not his fault; he can't help it.

Late February is a Greek god casting ancient dice onto the human table. It's a toddler pulling the ears of her ever-patient dog, a preteen in a dandelion field. He loves me, he loves me not.

Late February is the relative who hurts you most, because you love him enough to allow it. A Janus-faced friend bringing both the shade and the sun, and to enter each is to feel a fire, hot or cold depending.

It's not that Late February can't decide whom to be, friend or foe, winter or spring. It simply likes having power over the toss.

Article in Western North Carolina Woman

2011-02-02T11:31:00.006-05:00

Hi, folks.

An essay of mine has been published in the February 2011 issue of the magazine Western North Carolina Woman. It's entitled "Procreation Meets Really Gross Grits," and it was written (obviously) before I had my daughter.

If interested, you can see it online (click the title of this post), or if you live in WNC, you can pick it up for free at newstands in the area.

Happy Wednesday,

Katie

Neighborhood Crime Scene

2011-02-01T09:59:00.005-05:00

Someone buried a bag of money in my yard.

I'm not making this up--my little back yard is a crime scene. The whole thing unfolded like a cozy small town mystery, one of those pretty little books with the painted covers... except, of course, for the fact that the criminals live behind us.

Over the past few months, a series of small crimes--things taken from cars, like wallets, Ipods and sunglasses--have been committed in our neighborhood. We live in a small town in the N.C. mountains; our pretty little street with its mix of bungalows, cottages, the occasional old Victorian and a few unkempt houses veers into another street that leads shortly to downtown. We are a town of mountain folks, wealthy retirees, outdoorsy types, college students and artists, and nothing much ever happens here... which is how we like it. But over the weekend, a rash of burglaries on our street had us all on edge.

Saturday night, several cars and houses on our street and in our neighborhood were broken into, wallets and checkbooks taken, laptops and money stolen literally while some of my neighbors were sleeping. The thieves walked right in and stole things while people were sleeping. Another neighbor-family had someone literally start cutting the screen on their bedroom window while they were lying in their bed; the dog heard it, barked, and woke them up. This is disconcerting, to say the least. Most of us leave our doors unlocked, windows open, cars unlocked, garages and carports with things like bikes and gear just sitting in the open.

So, back to the criminals behind my house. The house behind us, despite it being a cute cottage that could use some loving from a good owner, has been occupied by a string of unsavory renters since we moved here over five years ago. (Not bashing renters, just stating fact.) Lately, it's been occupied by a group of young guys, high school to college-age, who like to party and who started a band, and who played loudly--and sadly, not very well--in the garage near our property line on weekends. We've been joking about the band with our neighbor-friends to the right of us, wanting them to cut the volumn but not wanting to be those old fogies who call the police. And lately, they'd turned the music down, so we were satisfied. Besides, it wasn't that far of ten years ago we were playing our own music too loud. (Still do, sometimes.)

If we'd known they were criminals, we would've called the police. They fit the demographic: the cops had mentioned they thought it was a group of eighteen to nineteen year-old dropouts, local kids who were probably high and who knew the neighborhood. But we just didn't want to bash on some teenagers because they played music. We were trying to be nice.

Yesterday afternoon, when I let my dog out to do her business, she raced for the backyard fence and started barking like crazy. I stepped out and saw that three men were in the backyard of the house behind us, one of them an older gentlman who was gesticulating wildly. I stepped out, certain this had something to do with the weekend crime spree. I walked back to meet them through our fence gate, which was wide open--and I asked the men if they'd opened it. They hadn't, and they were plainclothed police detectives, and they wanted to dig in my yard. They were pretty sure, thanks to my old gossip-hound of a neighbor (bless his nosey heart) that someone had buried stolen goods in our yard. I warned the detective with the shovel of the fact that the crime scene was in my dog's poop area, and if he was willing to navigate the land mine, he was welcome. They also asked if I could put my dog inside, who was not about to let the men hop our fence; I put her in the house, stuck my toddler on my hip and walked back outside to watch.

After a few minutes of digging (during which the neighbor gentleman's voice rose up an down an octave like an excited old biddy, giddy with being in on the action, "I've never been a part of something this exciting before," he chirped) the detective unearthed a paper bag with over a thousand dollars in it. The money, he said, had been stolen from a local businessman's house down the street a couple of nights ago. The hoodlums renting the house behind us had done it all, and while most were in custody, a few of their friends were still running around, so "be vigilant."

The detectives felt certain that the criminals had probably attempted to break into every one of our houses, and that only effective locks on the doors and windows, and in our case, our 90 lb black dog, had kept them out.

I've swung back and forth on a pendelum between being disturbed and just being angry that someone of ill intent has been on my land, in my yard, around my house and my neighbors' houses. That our lives have been violated by someone else's greed and immorality. That the sanctity of our homes--homes in which live our babies and dogs and other loved ones--has been disturbed. I've never understood thievery, or the urge to steal in general, and this leaves me even more baffled and irritated. Who the hell do those stupid criminals think they are?

The whole thing leaves us all a little more aware, and sadly, a little more jaded about the world in which we live. But I'm thankful that no one was physcially injured, and that we're all looking out for each other in a new way. I'm thankful for my gossipy neighbor, and glad he's keeping his wrinkled eyes peeled while he pitters in his garden. Most of all, I'm thankful for my big, bad dog--who is certainly big but SO not bad--and will no longer be embarrassed when she scares people unwittingly. In fact, from now on when she growls lowly during the night from her lounging position on the couch, I'm going to open the back door and let her out. And whoever--and whatever--is out there can deal with the consequences.

ABNA 2011... Here Goes Nothing

2011-01-24T12:59:00.006-05:00

At 3:30 this morning, my upper back and neck a twisted knot from sitting so long at the computer, I submitted my historical novel to the 2011 ABNA: Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award. Now, I vow to forget the entire shebang--including the fact that there'll be an announcement of writers who made the next round, in a month or so--and to concentrate on living life as I know it.

It's the first time I've entered the ABNA, which has been around for the past five-plus years. The contest is held jointly by Amazon and Penguin Publishing Group, and the winning manuscript gets a $15,000 advance and published by Penguin or one of its many imprints. There are two categories this year: YA (Young Adult) and General Fiction (all genres). There are several rounds, the first of which is the Pitch: basically, boiling your (in my case, 450-page) novel into 300 or less words that hook, astound, and engage the reader. It's sort of like coming up with the information that would appear on a book jacket, if your manuscript should ever be so lucky to grow up to be a book.

In this contest, the Pitch is everything. Without it, you do not pass. I worked on mine for weeks, starting with the blurb of information from the query letter I'd written to literary agents several years ago. Then I tweaked, got lots of great advice from friends and writer-friends, and folks on the ABNA discussion boards, and finally came up with the finished product. I'm hoping like hell it makes it through.

These are not good odds: the contest allows 5,000 entries in each category, which means there are thousands of writers pitching their hope and work to the stars, right alongside mine. And do not doubt that these are talented writers; I've seen their previews and pitches, and I'm impressed by the quality of folks vying for the goal. Despite the odds, I figure if anything, it's yet another way to get my work in front of people in the industry. And since entering was free, what could it hurt?

Oh, yeah... my neck. My back. My neck and my back. (A little Friday, anyone? Showing my age, here.)

If, by the grace of God and the contest judges, my humble novel makes into the 1,000 entries that pass the first (Pitch) round, then it will start down a long and bumpy road which could (please please Lord please) end in an excerpt being posted on Amazon.com... with an option for people all over the world to read, review and vote on it. Hmm... perfect strangers of varietous skills critiquing your work through the fabulously impersonal world of the Internet? Not. Scary. At. All.

I'll keep y'all posted. If may be a bit difficult, with every one of my appendages being crossed for luck, to do much typing. But I'll try.

Making the Leap

2011-01-19T09:24:00.011-05:00

I have entered once again the abyss, and now I'm free-falling, like one of those cave jumpers who dive screaming into the murk until on a whoosh comes a wide, white parachute and a waking dream of the dark and dank and cool.

Okay, maybe that's a bit dramatic. All I've done, like so many others, is make the decision to attempt to go back to school. It's a Master of Fine Arts in writing (fiction) I'm trying for, because--at least at this point in time--the MFA is still considered the terminal degree for creative writers who also want to be professors. I actually started the application process in late summer 2008, and then the life-changing happened that Fall (see the photo above). And the graduate school dream was put on indefinite hold while I navigated pregnancy and hormones and the wonders and stresses and waking dream that is new motherhood.

It's not the first time I've done this: I earned a MA in English in 2004, and I've been slaving away at various colleges and community/technical colleges since then, thoroughly enjoying my job but wanting to find something more permanent and, ahem... monetarily feasible. I know I'm not alone here; there are thousands of us--lowly adjuncts--teaching across the country, working for pittance and wondering why we got the advanced degree in the first place. (This could be a whole other blog, and it's been done, so I'm not going there.)

But I'm not one of those people. I earned my Master's degree in English for two reasons: to work towards a terminal degree (I thought at the time, a PhD), and to acquaint (and reacquaint) myself with the great writers, in order to become a better writer. I never regret school; I feel that education is a beauty "worthwhile in itself." But now that I'm starting the process all over again--and with a toddler, husband, and part-time job in tow--and though I know that it's the right and best thing for me, I wonder if I'm not a little nuts?

What am I thinking? I barely have time for myself now, and I have one child. One. My "free" time is not spent writing, but catching up on school work and bills and laundry and all the sundry and annoyingly wonderful things that come with being a wife and mother in the modern word. I poop out, exhausted, at about 10:30 every night. I'm nuts, I know it.

The thing is, I know that I can do this. I can figure out how to earn (another) degree, be a good mama, a loving partner, a healthy person. I'd just like a magic potion. A pill, perhaps (are you listening, Phizer?). I'll make my best go of it. I just wish it were a wee bit--just a wee bit--easier.

Any advice, you writers-with-children? Students-with-children?

Disclaimer: This post was a result of one week of cancelled preschool due to snow, and three days (so far) of delayed preschool. A bomb filled with toys, magazines, stuffed animals and thermal coffee mugs (don't ask) has exploded in my house, and I just let my toddler wade through it at will. I rock.

Wilderness House Literary Review

2011-01-02T20:55:00.005-05:00

An excerpt from my historical novel, KEOWEE, has been published in Wilderness House Literary Review, #5/4. You'll find it when you click the link below, under "Fragments of novels looking for homes (publishers)."

http://www.whlreview.com/ (For the entire issue.)
http://www.whlreview.com/no-5.4/fiction/KSCrawford.pdf (For my excerpt alone.)

It's the first time an excerpt from my novel--which my agent is still pitching to publishers--has appeared in a literary journal.

Hope you enjoy. And a very Happy New Year to all!

Katie

Ghosts of Christmas Past

2010-12-16T14:47:00.006-05:00

It's only just topped 20 degrees this snowy, frozen mountain morning. I am a-sit at my fireside desk, considering the end of 2010. The passage of time like this has always seemed to me a cosmic joke, a bittersweet reminder of the nature of being wonderfully human--a treatise on the rare and precious nature of life.

For me, one of the loveliest, and at the same regrettable, aspects of time passing so lightning-fast is not the new wrinkles around my eyes or my daughter morphing into a literal little girl, or even my dog growing more gray about the muzzle: it is, instead, my inability to connect with old friends in a real way.

Certainly, there are the things that separate us: age, different lives and responsibilities, new ideas and cares, state lines, even continents. But though we are no longer children, teenagers--or even tanned, carefree twenty-somethings--what we share are memories of experiences that glitter momentarily in the mind, a Christmas ornament catching the light. And memories of time spent with friends, however ephemeral, cannot be lost no matter how old we grow or how much we change.

So....

For My Friends at Christmastime

I miss you.

I miss the days spent lakeside, fireside, schoolside--

the quick flash of laughter, the raucous freedom of being wild,

the stories and the trust and the secrets.

Know that if you wonder on me, I wonder on you--

that ours is a snow globe shaken.

Ode on an Extraordinary Professor

2010-11-19T10:25:00.005-05:00

Here's a link to a short piece I wrote for the Fall 2010 issue of College of Charleston Magazine. (Click the title of this post.) It's on the last page of the print issue, in a section called "My Space." And it's about a professor named Joe Harrison, who was my independent study advisor, and with whom I spent a summer study abroad in Italy in 2003.

On another note, College of Charleston Magazine is an impressive publication: by far the best alumni publication I've ever read. Even if you're not an alum, the whole thing is a good read.

Enjoy!

Steady as She Goes

2010-11-10T10:43:00.005-05:00

It is well with me only when I have a chisel in my hand.

~ Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, 1474-1564

Sitting at this desk in a brown-tiled room, a fire blazing on a chilly—but not yet cold—November morning, it becomes apparent to me that I am a Spurter. One-who-spurts. Better yet, I should say: One-Who-Does-Things-in-Spurts. I’m certain that this comes as no surprise to anyone who knows me; so indeed, it’s not really a surprise even to me. Recognition, however, comes a little slow for my mercurial and somewhat exhausted brain.

But it’s true: almost anything I’ve ever done—and done well—has been in a great spurt of inspiration or information or necessity: writing a college essay (night before, cram cram), reading a book (all in one sitting, no matter the tomb), writing a novel (I’m a sixteen-plus pages at a time sort of writer), cleaning the house (flurry of activity, Windex, Lysol, vacuum, oh my!), hiking a trail (turn around now, are you kidding?!), catching up with friends (all of them, all in one day), and even deciding to have a baby (okay, maybe I won’t go there.) “Slow and steady wins the race” has never been my adage of choice, and perhaps it should be. Perhaps those plodders, the successful, steady-as-she-goes types, are onto something. Maybe there’s a potion.

It can’t be easy to live with, this spurting tendency of mine. Since we dated for three years before becoming engaged, I think my husband may have had some sort of idea what he was getting into. But then, we’d never lived together before, so the day to day reality of this odd aspect of my nature may still be an annoyance… even after six years of marriage. Yeesh. As we’ve grown together, we try to plan, to budget, to make lists. These are all practical antidotes for the spurting. They help at times; at others they’re just stop-gap. My fifteen month-old daughter doesn’t seem to mind the spurting, though she may be too young at this point to recognize that Mama is a little nuts. Or maybe, heaven forbid, she’s a spurter, too. Maybe there’s a potion.

The dog is definitely a spurter: this I knew the day I brought her home from the breeder and she went skidding full-tilt around the hardwood floors of the beachhouse I was renting at the time; or, when she bounded—at all of six weeks old and about the size of a loaf of bread—into the rough Atlantic, only to be pummeled by a monster wave. She’s still that way, gazelling up steep trails in her late-middle-age, high on joy, then crashing on our couch for hours after. The lulls between spurts, for both of us—my dog and me—are getting longer. This does not bode well for future productivity.

At times I long to be one of the plodders, those whose houses stay clean for months on end, the ones who train for marathons a year away, whose lives are clear and unworried and neat, those steady, accomplished people. Michelangelo was steady. It took him four years each, give or take, to both sculpt the David and paint the Sistine Chapel ceiling. During each of those times he was also commissioned for, and completed, other works—including architectural projects and paintings. Inspired? Surely. But also determined, prepared, steady. Most would say that Michelangelo was a master, a true genius. He felt differently: “If you knew how much work went into it,” he would say, “you would not call it genius.”

So there’s the goal: to marry the inspired, the passion, with the steady, the deliberate. In the meantime, I bow to you, Plodders. Keepers-of-the-schedules. Master Buonarroti, always. My elderly, across the street neighbor, who raises her American flag every morning at 7:35 a.m. You are the producers. That I may, one day, be one.

Why I Write: Or, Why I Will Write Soon

2010-09-13T08:40:00.004-04:00

Writing is like making love, but it's also like having a tooth pulled. [And] sometimes it's like making love while having a tooth pulled. ~ Dean Koontz

Exactly eleven months and two days after I'd given birth to our daughter, my husband and I were arguing. We were growing louder and more immature by the second when out of frustration and self-preservation, my husband took his head briefly in his hands and then shook them at me like a saner version of Kosmo Cramer. "You have got to write!" He shouted.

It had the same effect as a concerned friend begging lowly to an addict, You've got to quit drinking or You've got to get some help. Not writing was making me curt, ornery, and even a bit depressed.

Three years earlier, I'd attended a writing conference in South Carolina with a mere ten pages of an historical novel--the product of an idea that had been brewing in my brain for years. At the end of my sit-down with a reputable editor (formerly with Algonquin Books) he set my pages down on the table between us and looked at me directly. "Have you got more?" He asked.

"No," I answered, embarrassed. "That's it."

"Well, a year from now, when you finish it, you need to start shopping for agents. I think you've got a really publishable work here."

A year and a half later I finished the novel and followed the editor's advice. I did my research, and within six months I was choosing between four literary agents who'd offered to represent me and my fledgling novel. I went with the older agent: a man whose success and longevity in the business I'd admired, and whose name often popped up beneath the word "Producer" in the credits of several blockbuster action films. I didn't expect for my novel to be bought quickly, of course, but I'd been on such a lucky streak with the whole thing--my first novel, several offers of representation, the rarity of it all--that there was a tinny voice in my head whispering It'll happen. You're on a roll.

Six months passed. Then another six months. Then a year. The publisher rejection letters I insisted my agent send me poured in. Despite the occasional compliment, it was the negative that stuck with me: "Not right for my list." "A little old-fashioned." And my personal favorite: "We could've done a great job with this a few years back." Merely the stuff of experience, I told myself. I began new work, tried somewhat unsuccessfully to shore up my confidence, to take strength from the many failed-then-finally-published writers before me. Everyone goes through this, I reasoned.

Then, in the Fall of 2008, I got pregnant... and shortly thereafter lost the power to write. Whatever you want to call it--the creative spark, the Muse, my literary mojo--was simply swallowed up by Baby Brain Freeze. All the supportive comments from my writer friends who were already parents, the "Just think about how much you'll have to write about!" and "Your creativity will blossom!" did nothing to rouse my creative will. Though it was arguably the most important physical and emotional transition of my life, I felt no urge to write about the experience. I pushed aside my literary life and immersed myself in reading and thinking only about baby. Or at least I tried.

So when my husband shouted, I stopped. I didn't even have to take a breath. "You're right, " I told him. And he was--I needed to write like I needed to take my first shower in days or to sit down and eat a proper supper. Not doing so was making me mean.

I began by writing letters to my infant daughter, and no matter how sporadic, it is the act of channeling thought to fingertips, fear and hope and love to the page, that has brought me back from the abyss. Started the thaw. Revved my writer's engine. In doing so, I'm not making any great strides. God knows I'm still a bit paralyzed by the fact that my novel may never get published, that as the mother of a now one year-old, it may be years before I again have the opportunity for totally unencumbered writing time.

Today, my literary agent finally returned an email message I'd sent him over a month ago, and then re-sent two weeks later, just to be sure he'd received it. An apology: He's got several unfinished manuscripts due at the same time. He's having surgery soon, a hip replacement. He'll call me some time next week.

And what will I tell him? That the only writing I've accomplished in the past twenty-one months has been an occasional blog posting, handwritten "thank you" notes for baby shower gifts, and the random-yet-inspired letters to my daughter? Maybe.

Or perhaps I'll tell him that I've written this piece. That I'm coming back. That no matter the life change, the anxiety, the exhaustion--I have got to write.

My Dog is a Toddler

2010-08-06T10:53:00.008-04:00

My dog is a toddler.

This has been a slow emergence; she's only recently morphed. But a toddler she is: she's suddenly got an infintismal attention span, and is so slow to respond--it takes her three or four times to obey a command--that I'm starting to feel like one of those "yelling mothers." We've all heard them, screeching at their children over... and over... and over again to do something they so desperately want.

Over the past weekend, which happened to be our daughter's first birthday and subsequent party at my family's lakehouse, my dog, Scout, (a 90 lb black lab) insisted on barking at every passing boat, stealing towels and t-shirts, begging for food: all the things she knows she's not supposed to do. Everyone in my family--and we're an opinionated lot--seems to think that this behavior is a result of not getting enough attention from my husband and me, the parents. And it's true: our world has been picked up like a coin jar and shaken, all the coins flipped. Our once fantastic dog, who used to get taken on several hikes, trail runs, and walks each week, and who used to come when called at most by the second try, has been consigned to second place.

It pains me to even write those words--second place--especially as I never thought I'd see the day. But if I'm to be honest, it's true. Everything, not just the dog, has been reshifted. The only runner in the lead is our daughter, and we're okay with that for now. But Scout, I'm afraid, is still a toddler.

She does, however, redeem herself in small ways. There was a human toddler, a little girl, at the birthday party: our friends' daughter, who was wandering the dock. Our friend reported that Scout put her body between the little girl and the water, and continued to do this every time the little girl ventured to the edge. And I can't forget that in the months after our daughter was born, Scout sat faithfully by my chair as I nursed, head regal, on the lookout for danger. Today, on our morning walk, she trotted faithfully to the left of the stroller, glancing repeatedly at our daughter, keeping between her and the street. On a downtown street corner, an older gentleman stopped his car, rolled down his window and called, "It's nice to have an old friend helping out."

I couldn't agree more.

Maybe in time, as my husband and I relax and reshuffle, organize and purge, Scout will settle into her new role with the ease of an old pro. She has endured my many moods and changes--from hermit graduate student to itinerate college professor to first-time mother--and she certainly deserves the same consideration and patience, the same faithful presence.

So when she leaps over my crawling baby on the way to find a place, any place, of peace in our tiny house, and knocks said baby in the head with her giant paws, I will deal with it. Pick up the baby, pet the dog.

Surely we'll all grow up together.

Riptide

2010-05-12T10:01:00.010-04:00

Coming back to writing, and to working on something new, after a time away is akin to being a swimmer caught in a riptide: you must make many repeated attempts to get to where you want to be... and patiently, ever so patiently, hold steady.

I grew up spending quite a bit of time on the South Carolina coast, even lived on a sea island for a while, and I know all about riptides and how you're supposed to free yourself from one. I was even a lifeguard for a decade. But none of this seems to matter when it comes to my writing life, and the analogy I'm attempting to make: I am caught in a writing riptide, I have the tools and resources to set myself free, but I'm impatient and worn out from fighting my own daily life to get there. I know I should lift my feet, float on my back and let the current take me a ways first, but who has the time for that sort of release?

During the last week of April I worked like I haven't worked, writing-wise, in years, all in order to get my historical novel ready in time to be submitted to the 2011 Novello Press Award. The award is for N.C. and S.C. writers, and it's through the Charlotte Mecklenberg Library. Past winners, like Ron Rash, have gone on to publishing success--regionally and beyond. It's a great contest, and a wonderful opportunity to get your writing in front of the right eyes. Since my literary agent has been unsuccessful for the past almost three (gulp) years in finding a publisher for my novel, he gave me the go-ahead to submit. I do not think, for one moment, that I will win.

This is not an attempt at false humility: I really don't have a chance. Past winners have written, for the most part, modern fiction, the only "historical" winner a novel set in the early 20th century. Genre fiction was not allowed, "genre" including horror, romance, western, mystery, etc. And since my novel is possessed of several different "types" (which I loathe to even type)--adventure, romance, historical, literary, popular--I thought, What the heck? Maybe the judges will at least read until the end.

Finding time to write has become almost impossible. I have a 9 month old at home with me, and she is not fond of napping. If I'm lucky, I get 45 minutes to myself in the morning. (This, I know, is punishment for all the times I rolled my eyes pre-pregnancy at the mothers of one child who complained at lack of personal time. God is a woman, and She is enjoying my idiocy.) Said 45 minutes sometimes include getting my allergy shots at the doctor's office, paying bills, making a phone calls(s), doing laundry, or--but less often--cleaning the house. So, for a week while working on my manuscript, I worked and wrote new pages late into the night and many nights into the wee morning hours.

I had not, necessarily, put off getting my manuscript ready for the contest until the last minute. I only learned of it two months before the deadline, and a maelstrom of events conspired to keep me from it: an almost three-week bought with a cold/sinus infection that I thought would simply go away, several weekends out of town or with guests, and a nice little sparring match with food poisoning... plus a teething baby. I suddenly turned around and I had a week left to rework a vastly researched, painstakingly and lovingly written, 430+ page novel.

Since I wanted to make a few changes several of the big-time NYC editors who'd read my novel had mentioned to my agent, and since contest rules stated that manuscripts had to be, at most, 400 pages long, this meant much work and stress on my part. By adjusting my story, making these changes, I altered the plot quite a bit. And so the week before it was due--also the same week before my in-laws were coming for a
visit--I wore myself completely out.

I'd taken on the challenge of the contest for two reasons: 1) to get my manuscript in front of a regional publishing professionals, who are perhaps more open to a story like mine; and 2) to get myself back into a writing schedule--to work with a deadline. And as exhausted as I was with caring for a baby all day and writing all night, I was happy. (My husband, maybe not so much--as he was sadly ingnored, but he was supportive as always.) Writing again, and even getting back to this work I'd spent two and a half years researching and writing (and even more working with an agent and suffering the tightrope walk that is waiting while editors at publishing houses take a look and judge, judge) was like coming home. I felt, more than I had in a long time and in the midst of being Mama, a role I happen to love, that this was me. Well, look at that... here I am.

But now the riptide. I have no novel to rework, no deadline to meet. What I have are three unfinished novels (one historical, a far sequel to my first; one modern; the third an amalgom of past and present), one finished novel that simply CANNOT SELL, a teething baby, a sadly neglected husband, a terrifying amount of weight to lose, and a desperate, yearning need to do and work at all of these things in a way that leans heavily on perfection. In the midst of it all, I ache to be extraordinary.

Experienced swimmers, strong and able, drown in riptides each year. The urge is primal: fight. Only those with an unerring patience and sense of permanence are able to let the current take them out to sea, knowing that when the time is right, they will swim at that curving parallel, a tang of saltwater in their mouths and a burn in their eyes, the swells rising--to finally arrive at shore.

Nior bhris focal maith fical riamh

2010-03-17T09:32:00.003-04:00

"A good word never broke a tooth," so sayeth the Irish wise ones. And in honor of the Irish, I am sharing the following Irish blessings, poems, and adages. May the humor, joy, brewing, and luck of the Irish be in us all today.

Eirinn go Brach!

~ Katie

There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet
Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.
~ Thomas Moore, Irish songwriter (1779-1852)

I will arise and go now, for always
Night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low
Sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on
The pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.
~ W.B. Yeats, Irish writer & statesman (1865-1939)

May your glass be ever full.
May the roof over your head by always strong.
And may you be in heaven half an hour
Before the Devil knows you're dead.

May your home always be too small to hold all of your friends.

May the blessings of light be upon you,
Light without and light within.
And in all your comings and goings,
May you ever have a kindly greeting
From them you meet along the road.

She is a rich and rare land,
Oh, she's a fresh and fair land;
She is a dear and rare land,
this native land of mine.
~ Thomas Davis, Irish poet (1814-1845)

O dim delicious heaven of dreams--
The land of boyhood's dewey glow--
Again I hear your torrent streams
Through purple gorge and valley flow,
Whilst fresh the mountain breezes blow.
Above the air smites sharp and clear--
The silent lucid spring it chills
But underneath, move warm amidst
The bases of the hills.
~ John O'Donnell, Irish poet (1837-1874)

May there be a generation of children
on the children of your children.

May those who love us, love us.
And those who don't love us,
May God turn their hearts.
And if He doesn't turn their hearts,
May He turn their ankles,
So we may know them by their limping!

Deep peace of the running waves to you.
Deep peace of the flowing air to you.
Deep peace of the smiling stars to you.
Deep peace of the quiet earth to you.
Deep peace of the watching shepherds to you.
Deep peace of the Son of Peace to you.
~ Gaelic prayer

May you always have a clean shirt, a clean conscience, and a guinea in your pocket!

May the good Lord take a liking to you... but not too soon!

Throughout my journey I did not meet
Another country like the land of O'Neill;
The variegated hillsides bright with dew
The sunny smooth meadows crossed by roads.
~ Padraigin Haicead, 17th century Irish poet

May the most you wish for
Be the least you get.

An old Irish recipe for longevity:
Leave the table hungry.
Leave the bed sleepy.
Leave the table thirsty.

I am of Ireland
And of the holy land of Ireland
Good sir I pray of ye
For saintly charity
Come dance with me
In Ireland
~ Anonymous, 14th century Irish poet

St. Patrick's Breastplate:
Christ be with me,
Christ within me,
Christ behind me, Christ before me,
Christ beside me, Christ to win me,
Christ to comfort me, Christ above me,
Christ in quiet, Christ in danger,
Christ in hearts of all that love me,
Christ in mouth of friend and stranger.
~ St. Patrick, 5th century Irish cleric

Were you ever in Tipperary, where the fields are so sunny and green,
And the heath-brown Slieve-bloom and the Galtees look down with so proud a mien?
'Tis there you would see more beauty than is on all Irish ground--
God bless you, my sweet Tipperary, for where could your match be found?
~ Mary Kelly, Irish poet (1825-1910)

Health and long life to you.
Land without rent to you.
A child every year to you.
And if you can't go to heaven,
May you at least die in Ireland.

May you live as long as you want,
And never want as long as you live.

Letting Go

2010-03-10T11:13:00.004-05:00

I used to think of myself as an easy person: easy going, easy to get to know, easily satisfied, easy on myself and on others. But the older I get--and the more wise (please, Lord)--the more I recognize my true self. She stares back at me in the mirror every day, and yet only now am I becoming honest with the reflection. Okay: as honest as I can be. Hopefully in thirty years I'll be refreshingly self-actualized.

I've written several posts about this quandry of living in the moment, of embracing life as it is: enveloping the present. I write about it in a cathartic fervor, but I have trouble following through. I say I'm going to do it--live IN my life--and yet I let life whiz by like an L train above my head, clattering the rails and screaming towards a bevy of mult-stop destinations, all neon and light, a flash of soon-forgotten faces marred by a grid of dirty windows. In truth, I'd prefer to be like the elderly couple who ride their bikes every day through my neighborhood, decked in their matching sweatsuits and bike helmets. They toodle along, sometimes shouting conversation to each other, one behind, one in front; at times they ride in silence, smoothly, bike wheels spinning leisurely as they pass bungalows with new flowers, yapping dogs. They let SUVs full of kids and DVD players and harried mothers, or hatchbacks driven by irritated teenagers short-cutting to the nearby high school, wait on them as they round corners or cross intersections. They smile at me when we pass each other, say hello. Personally, I think they've got it made.

People who have the talent of "letting go" are always recognizable. They claim an aura of peace and satiation: there's an otherwordly quality to them that attracts some and leaves others suspicious. At times they are aliens--like they've sold their souls for a chance at figuring it all out. At others, they are angels--forgiving, sweet, present. There was a boy I went to high school with who was like this. His name was Gary, and he was beloved by all. I hope the world hasn't changed him too much.

I'd prefer to be more like these people. Sadly, I don't think I have the goods. I am tempestuous, analytical, sensitive, erratic. I long to be patient, thick-skinned, even-keeled. I don't want to one day realize that I've lived a life of length but not of width: that I wasted time wanting more and forgot to notice that I really had everything.

I want to, instead of worrying over finding work, making money, "contributing," recognize (and be completely satisfied and happy with the fact) that my current job is Mama. My husband is happy with this state of affairs; in fact, he's constantly encouraging me to do less--to let caring for our infant daughter and taking care of things at home be who I am right now. Inately, I know this is a huge contribution to our lives, and I'd like to be happy in it and with it. Instead, I scramble to teach random classes that pay me next to nothing and make my husband rush home from work to take care of our daughter, simply to feel that I'm doing something MORE.

Contentment. That's what I seek. That's what we all seek, isn't it? But I'm coming to realize that being content just might not be who I am. Part of me never wants to be satisfied with everything in my life and in my person. To be satisfied, completely satisfied, is to stop the search. For me, ending the search would be akin to death. Maybe I can find contentment without complete satisfaction--or, perhaps, allow contentment, peace, to seep into my life in little ways: a cool fog sweeping across a mountain trail, refreshing the sweating, aching body, but still allowing glimpses of the view ahead.

Hibernation

2010-01-12T11:24:00.007-05:00

Currently, many things about me are in hibernation:

- My naturally blonde hair (which turned much darker while pregnant and is now waiting for the sun to lighten it back up),
- My pre-pregnancy (hell, for that matter, my pre-pre pregnancy) body (which is taking forEVER to return... die, you women who re-morph to a size-freaking-four in two months, or the ones whose nursing just burned that old fat right off in no time),
- My can-do attitude (lately I've felt like I CAN'T have it all. Why would Oprah lie to me?),
- My education (as proven in everything I've just written in crazy Southern-woman speak),
- My writing and/or creativity "muse."

Surely, this hibernation will be like that of a bear's: fruitful and restoring. Right? 'Cause something's gotta give. Writing with a baby on your lap trying to gleefully slap every key, or said baby nearby, crying/laughing/babbling with multiple toys going off at once, just isn't going to cut it.

I find something incredible in every season, and winter is no exception. I love the cold, crisp air--the chance to see breath materialize before my face, proof I am a creation, alive in this world--the way the light is incandescent and unflinching, the bare branches of trees, the blue sky. I find it a time even more important than Spring: a chance to cozy up, talk, drink wine (not that I actually need it to be winter to do that), melt into home, regroup with old friends, write letters, and--internally, at least--a time in which to make anew myself, to make promises to myself and to reevaluate my life in a way that speaks more of renovation than resolution.

In addition to being the most humbling experience of my life, new motherhood, and the attempt to be a creative writer alongside it, is teaching me that though life is short, it's essential to sometimes slow oneself. To accept the moment the way it is, and to be in that moment. "Wherever you are, be there." This is a new challenge for me, because I'm always looking ahead, dreaming of better and of more. But I want to truly live in my life. So we'll see.

Questions

2009-12-09T10:10:00.005-05:00

Lately I've been wondering about what makes a life. In considering my own, and this very complicated and wonderful new place to which I've come--read: mother of a four month-old--I've been caught in a sort of eddy. Held still with questions, some doubt, anchored by business and life-speed, I look forward to the future with fragile hope. I do feel that that future is the river before me, whitewater churning, hidden with hydraulics--with rapids easy and stern. Can I (will I, and when?) dip paddle to the cold rush, slide forward into the wild?

If there's one thing I know at what some would call the tender age of almost-thirty-two, it's that life is unbearingly and heartbreakingly short. How can it be stretched in order to contemplate and live in and around each moment? Is it even possible? Or does a human being become a selfish thing when she attempts living fully--are there people and places left behind?

The novelist Eugenia Price famously said that "The great doing of little things makes the great life." The little things, I believe, can be the more profound. But if a soul yearns for the "big things," how to make it all come to pass in a way that not only avoids hurting loved ones, but elevates them?

This post is filled with question marks, and for that I half-heartedly apologize. The season now is one filled with an unflinching bareness and an awesome light, and I am left ever humbled.

2009-11-02T16:03:00.002-05:00

The swift passage of time has always been tough for me to take. Suddenly, with the birth of my first child, I am even more cognizant of its mercurial nature, and I feel a twinning fear and joy because of it: fear that my life will pass by without my having truly lived it the way I wish, and joy that I have a precious daughter and family, a child to watch grow and change.

Suddenly, it is November. In Brevard, the peak of Fall has come and is almost gone: yellow and orange and red are leaving us with browns, bare branches, and frosted windshields in the mornings. The heat has officially been turned on in our house, our fleece clothes pulled from attic bins, my black labrador's coat growing thicker--making her look a bit like an adolescent bear.

We spent the weekend at my family's lakehouse in the South Carolina Blue Ridge. My sister, her husband, and most of his family flew in from Memphis, Tennessee for a Halloween respite, and it was good. We watched football at the Tiki Bar, ate candy and homecooked meals, took boat rides, drank wine, laughed a lot, and were thoroughly entertained by my three month-old daughter. I never knew how thrilling, how special it would be to watch my beloved "little" sister holding and playing with my child. Several times I found myself just watching them, smiling.

The holidays are only weeks away, and another year will soon pass in a bittersweet flash of familiar faces and voices, car rides, Christmas carols, decadent treats, wrapping paper, wood fires, rush and hustle, and exhaustion. I wonder if I'll ever understand the mysterious necesity of this--that relentless pace of time--but watching my daughter with my family under a Halloween sky and in a place we all love, it stood still if only for a moment.

Apple Pickin', Autumn in the Air, the Muse Emerging

2009-10-12T17:37:00.006-04:00

Autumn, or "Fall" as we like to say in the South, has come in wet to Western North Carolina. After a series of rainy weeks the colors have begun to change seemingly overnight, and up in Pisgah National Forest and out on the Blue Ridge Parkway the reds are brightening, and soon it will be peak season. When it is clear, the atmosphere changes, and the sky crystallizes with an October blue unlike any other. I am so ready for fires in the fireplace, hot cider, and hiking that I can barely stand it. Now, if it will only stop raining....

Lately I've been feeling as if I woke up and suddenly it was October. Indeed, I've lived in a sort of postpartum cave the past couple of months, and it's been warm and cozy and inhabited by the cutest creature on the planet, and I haven't been too proactive about crawling out of it. But my Wylie is only days away from turning 11 weeks old, my favorite of all the seasons has appeared in golds and oranges and reds, and I'm ansty with wanting to be outside and soaking up all of it. My greatest fear is that time is passing too quickly--that I'll miss it. And I don't want to miss anything.

If I can conquer this new-baby thing, I can rule the world... of that I am convinced. Anyone who can take care of an infant, get everything done in their day needed, and continue to produce interesting and entertaining art deserves to lauded as a superhero--or at least be given a big, fat ice cream cone. I am in awe of those writers, like Nora Roberts (yes, I am a Nora Roberts fan, and I don't care if she's the queen of romance: she writes like a dream) who pen bestselling novels at the breakfast table while their kids scarf down cereal or nap in the playpen. Mayhap I will get to that point. I sure as hell hope so. I want so.

Currently, it has been over a year since my novel has been "out" with editors at the major publishing houses, and so far nothing. I do not have my hopes up at this point, but I am ready to be writing again, and perhaps my current project can one day find a home... once it gets written, of course.

I dream about writing at night; about my novels and their plotlines and protagonists and crux moments. I woke up at 3 a.m. a couple of weeks ago yearning to write, with ideas twinkling across my brain like faulty Christmas lights, only to have them fizzle and disappear as soon as I lay my head. And I would've gotten up and padded to my desk and my laptop--I would've!--if it weren't for the fact that a crying, hungry infant would be waking me up only an hour or so later. And yes, that is a darn good excuse for avoiding inspiration... at least for now.

As October, that most glorious of months in the Southern Appalachians, slips towards bare, chilly November with a relentless swiftness, I'm trying to live in the moment. I'm walking my daughter and my dog down leaf-lined streets, admiring harvest decorations in Brevard's downtown, apple picking at the gorgeous Stepp Family Orchard in Edneyville, N.C. with great friends, wishing for cooler weather--and the ability to fit back into my pre-pregnancy sweaters--and being thankful, or at least trying to, every day, for this life. It is unbearingly sweet and terrifyingly short, and there is so much to be done.

Welcome to the World, Baby Girl

2009-08-14T13:47:00.003-04:00

She arrived: Wylie Skye Crawford Dodson, weighing in at 7 lbs, 12 oz, and at a length of 20 3/4 inches at 3:53 p.m. on July 29, 2009. We are ecstatic, exhausted, and forever changed.

Missing Lawdy Mercy

2009-07-10T17:11:00.005-04:00

In thirty-one years, I have missed our annual beach week at the Lawdy Mercy beachhouse only twice. This summer, I’ll add another miss to that count, and it’s making me feel like the one girl who didn’t get asked to prom—or, the first-semester college freshman far from home and as yet friendless, stuck inside a claustrophobic dorm room on a Friday night. Closer to the truth: I feel like a young woman heartsick, remembering with great pain every action, every moment spent with a lost love… replaying every second just to torture myself.

If this sounds like a close-to-petulant, “poor me” routine, that’s because it is. This summer, I’m forced to miss my family’s annual beach week—a vacation week at Garden City Beach, South Carolina, to which I look forward all year—because I happen to be 37 weeks pregnant. Three weeks: that’s all that’s left between me and D-Day, and the doctors have advised I stay as close to home as possible. The logical part of my brain knows this is a reasonable request meant to cater to my well-being, but the illogical part (the part that is right now imagining the feel of sand beneath my bare feet, watching myself toss a dummy into cool green waves and my black lab bounding after it, remembering the smell of the salt marsh and the eye-sting of a burning Lowcountry sunset—a sting because it’s just so damn beautiful) is just plain sad.

And torturing myself doesn’t make much sense, because as any woman—or partner of said woman—who has been this pregnant can tell you: nothing is much fun at 37 weeks. Certainly the car ride from our home in the mountains of Western North Carolina to the South Carolina coast, a good five and a half-hour drive even without rest stops, would be an exercise in torture for me. Add that to the fact that it’s bound to be a sweltering week outside, and inside the beachhouse the air conditioning is usually kept close to 80 degrees (my parents and my “second-parents,” owners of the Lawdy Mercy, all grew up without air conditioning and don’t see too much use in blasting it), and it would most likely be an uncomfortable week for me. Especially seeing as how, at this point, I’m annoyingly uncomfortable even in my own home and in my own bed. Argh. Scratch that: double ARGH.

But my heart just won’t give in to my head when it comes to being at the Lawdy Mercy. I can see them now, my family and friends, heading up from the beach at the end of a decadent day to drink cocktails on the back porch, the rhythmic creak of rocking chairs and the ceiling fans competing with the background beach music (who will they be listening to? Maurice Williams and the Zodiacs? Otis Redding? The Four Tops?). If it’s low tide, they’ll watch the sun descend into the trees across the marsh over Murrell’s Inlet, steeping the land and water and sky in a blaze of color that begins in fire and ends in a more sensual version of Easter pastel. If it’s high tide, they’ll quickly pack a cooler and take to the boat for a sunset cruise down the creek and out into the inlet. They’ll turn up the radio to one of the local stations, drink wine and watch egrets loop their graceful necks from the sanctuary of summer green marsh grass. As a kid, I used to sit on the front of the boat, let my toes drag the water and suck in the view and the smell of salt and pluff mud and boat exhaust as if it were the aroma of heaven.

I’ve always been like this about the beach. My parents have an old photograph of me as a toddler that never fails to crack them up: it was taken on the last day of one of our Lawdy Mercy weeks, when they’d just finished packing up the car to go home. In it, I’m standing in the driveway in a blue bathing suit—feet spread, hair white-blonde, my little hand pushed against the car door as if I can make it go away—and my sweet face is scrunched in misery, my little mouth open on a full-on wail, tears streaming down my face. Apparently, this wasn’t an unusual occurrence on packing-up day.

“You never did like leaving the beach,” my Mom says.

I still get this way, minus the crying, even though I am now officially an adult. Whenever we leave the Lawdy Mercy in July, my melancholy follows me up the state like Pig Pen’s dark cloud, somewhat dissipating around Columbia. My husband pretends not to notice, but usually buys me a chocolate milkshake.

I wonder if the little girl to-be who is currently shoving her miniature tootsies up into my rib cage and hiccupping disconcertingly down in my lower belly will feel the same way about her time at the beach?

It’s funny, but the further along I got into this pregnancy—when it started to truly feel real and lasting to both me and my husband—the more I began to think about just how much fun I’d have with my little girl, at the beach. I began to picture it in my mind, all of us—me, my husband, my family and friends, our dog—playing with an ephemeral, blonde-haired tyke in the shallows, in the sand, on the back dock. The day I truly let myself dream of this it was as if someone had jolted me with a live wire: the sheer thrill of imagining having a child and the stunning knowledge of how much I wanted it, wanted the pregnancy to go well and for everything to be “okay,” was more terrifying than anything I’d faced yet in my life.

So, what am I doing this week while my family is down at the beach, soaking up paradise, Southern-style, and I’m in my non air-conditioned house, grading papers and teaching composition to a group of ambivalent adult students, suffering through heartburn so nasty that it makes me want to funnel an entire bottle of mouthwash? I’m handling it like the mature adult that I am: I’m pretending like it’s not really the third week of July—that none of it is really real. Heck, it could still be June! And I’m the grand mistress of avoidance, the empress of ignorance.

I think I’ll get my husband to pick me up a chocolate milkshake on his way home.

Vive La Liberte!

2009-07-01T22:11:00.002-04:00

How I love the Fourth of July! I just can't help it--I'm an unabashed patriot, lover of history, appreciator of those who came and saw and founded, who had dreams much bigger than mine. And in honor of this Independence Day, I offer the following thoughts (these folks say it much better than I, anyhow):

"You have to love a nation that celebrates its independence every July 4, not with a parade of guns, tanks, and soldiers who file by the White House in a show of strength and muscle, but with family picnics where kids throw Frisbees, the potato salad gets iffy, and the flies die from happiness. You may think you have overeaten, but it is patriotism."
~ Erma Bombeck

"Freedom is nothing but a chance to be better."
~ Albert Camus

"Where liberty dwells, there is my country."
~ Benjamin Franklin

"We must be free not because we claim freedom, but because we practice it."
~ William Faulkner

"There is nothing wrong with America that cannot be cured by what is right with America."
~ William J. Clinton

"My God! How little do my countrymen know what precious blessings they are in possession of, and which no other people on earth enjoy!"
~ Thomas Jefferson

"Freedom is the oxygen of the soul."
~ Moshe Dayan

"The real democratic idea is, not that every man shall be on a level with every other, but that every one shall have liberty, without hindrance, to be what God made him."
~ Henry Ward Beecher

"A patriot is he whose public conduct is regulated by one single motive, the love of his country; who, as an agent in parliament, has, for himself, neither hope nor fear, neither kindness nor resentment, but refers every thing to the common interest."
~ Samuel Johnson

"This, then, is the state of the union: free and restless, growing and full of hope. So it was in the beginning. So it shall always be, while God is willing, and we are strong enough to keep the faith."
~ Lyndon B. Johnson

"I must study politics and war that my sons may have liberty to study mathematics and philosophy. My sons ought to study mathematics and philosophy, geography, natural history and naval architecture, navigation, commerce and agriculture, in order to give their children a right to study painting, poetry, music, architecture, statuary, tapestry, and porcelain."
~ John Adams

"I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty or give me death."
~ Patrick Henry

"The preservation of the sacred fire of liberty, and the destiny of the republican government, are justly considered as deeply, perhaps as finally stacked, on the experiment entrusted to the hands of the American people."
~ George Washington

"Liberty means responsibility. That is why most men dread it."
~ George Bernard Shaw

"Patriotism is the last refuge of scoundrels."
~ Mark Twain

"There, I guess King George will be able to read that."
~ John Hancock, after signing the Declaration of Independence

"Abandon your animosities and make your sons Americans!"
~ Robert E. Lee

"America is another name for opportunity. Our whole history appears like a last effort of divine providence on behalf of the human race."
~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

"America will never be destroyed from the outside. If we falter and lose our freedoms, it will be because we destroyed ourselves."
~ Abraham Lincoln

"It is from numberless diverse acts of courage and belief that human history is shaped. Each time a man stands up for an ideal, or acts to improve the lot of others, or strikes out against injustice, he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope."
~ Robert Kennedy

"May I never wake up from the American dream."
~ Carrie Latet

A Change is Gonna Come

2009-06-24T11:21:00.004-04:00

There is a nursery in our house.

Each time I walk past the doorway and peer in--which I've been doing quite a lot these days--I have to blink: where once was my husband's office, filled with computers, file cabinets, papers scattered, MBA and other business books, and a couple of Johnny Cash and Alfred Hitchcock prints is now a clean, crisp room painted a sweet blue. There's a mission-style crib (donated to us by fabulous friends), an 1830s Federal style dresser we bought from an antique store downtown, a corner cabinet filled with stuffed animals, baby books, toys--and a lovely rocking chair, courtesy of my parents. I still can't get over the crib. I can't get over that most likely in the next 5 weeks there will be a tiny being habitating there.

My mother and my aunt camped out at our house for several days earlier this month, and took to the room with can-do gusto. They cleaned, primed and prepped, and painted the entire thing: walls, ceiling, trim. They helped me sort through the piles of baby clothes, blankets of different sizes, hats, shoes--all shower gifts--in an attempt to figure out what needed to be washed and ready before the baby gets here. Without them, I would be still staring at those piles, wondering what in the world to do with all those tiny little blankets. Heck, I still don't know what to do with the big ones.

Being eight months pregnant is a constant exercise in humility. I've certainly left the "honeymoon" stage of the second trimester and am now well into the intensely fatigued, awkward, hormonal, I-am-as-big-as-a-whale-no-lie throes of the third. Strangers everywhere--at the community college where I teach, on the street, in Subway--have abandoned the shy glimpses and sweet, knowing smiles and are now full-on staring at my tremendous stomach. Lately I've had to squelch the urge to smack them across the face for it; all that holds me back is the South Carolina in me, urging me to act the lady and stay calm. I don't know how long I'll be able to heed that magnolia-laced voice. It sounds remarkably like my grandmother.

My experience has been utterly Janus-faced, which I suppose is not unlike the rest of my existence before pregnancy. On one hand, I am struck dumb by a mix of fear and doubt and anxiety that my life is changing in ways I'll never be able to gain control over again: that I'll miss out somehow on the traveling and the writing and experiencing I treasured so as an unencumbered woman. That I'll never really be "me" again. This is an unnerving prospect, one that keeps me awake at night, unable to write about it in my journal or even in an essay for fear that putting it there makes it all real, happening. On the other hand, I am terrifically excited at the promise of this alien being turning somersaults in my belly, at the tiny clothes, the prospect of a new adventure, at watching my husband become Daddy, at the challenge of being me as a mother. The only hope for this two-sided sort of internal battle, I suppose, is that I've been this schizophrenic for 31 years--surely my brain is used to it by now.

Every semester I ask my college students to write under the header: "What do I want to do with my time on the planet?" Now, I find myself composing my own internal essay. Only I know, unlike many of my students, exactly what I want to do; my answers are more selfish than I'd like. And I wonder that I'll ever be able to fit everything in, the traveling and writing and exploring and making a difference and leading a noble life. I live in the constant knowledge that there's a chance I'll wake up one day having discovered I've walked the same path as everyone else, that I've "given in" to the conventional. And regret is a pisser.

But even in the ridiculously banal land of "preparing for baby"--and it is banal, with its pink and blue-ness, its bevy of unneeded things, its websites with asinine titles like "The Bump" (really--the bump? Come ON.)--I've found myself feeling new things and thinking in new ways I'd not expected. Despite my reticence and the stress circus going on my head, I feel a layer of confidence and surety that all will work itself out in the end. I don't know if this is my innate optimism or simply sheer insanity, but it's there, and it's welcome. It keeps me from crossing the line. Makes me smile in the oddest of moments. Relieves me that at least one thing about myself hasn't changed.

Summertime's Calling Me

2009-05-26T12:36:00.004-04:00

In less than a week, it'll be June. As my split personality would say (who is younger, less literate and much more immature than I am), "holy freakin' moly!" The days and weeks are beginning their long, weighted slide into heady and humid summer, and everything in our house is turning towards preparing for a baby. "To Do" lists are mounted on my desk, the fridge, our bathroom mirror, my husband's desk, and there has been a sad lack of crossing things off... which should, hopefully, change soon as we slow our travel schedule and settle back into life in the mountains.

May has been a whirlwind of work, parties--for friends and for us, with baby showers--doctors' appointments, and travel. We just returned from a Memorial Day Weekend at Litchfield Beach and Debordieu Colony on the South Carolina coast. Our time was fabulously lazy and decadent, filled with yummy, fattening food, fannies planted in beach chairs, friend visiting, ocean and people-watching, and beach walks with our black lab, who takes to the sea and sand with infectuous joy. She literally does back-flips and doggie cartwheels (no lie) down the beach every time we're there.

I've started teaching an expository writing course at our local community college, and after a semester away from higher education am finding that I'm enjoying doffing my professor cap once again. The work is good and hard, but it's nice having something to occupy my mind in these final 10 weeks of pregnancy. Now, if I can only spur the creative process, set a schedule that includes teaching, writing, cleaning and preparing the house and yard, and still managing to soak in the magic that is summer, I will consider myself successful.

I hope that wherever you are, summer brings time outside with the ones you dig, sweet tea and grilled food, fireworks, and possibilities.

Spring

2009-04-21T09:30:00.004-04:00

The azaleas in our front yard are blooming fuschia and white, despite the fact that I hacked them back last year in an attempt at "trimming." Just goes to show me that despite my mistakes, there is a resilience in my life that is continual, has held firm. Thank goodness!

I haven't posted here in a while, partly out of forgetfulness, laziness, and a dire, long-term case of unoriginality. My creative pulse is still very hard to hear. I don't want to blame it entirely on the little girl growing in my belly--causing me to resemble a blonde Oompa Loompa, or the Michelin Man--but I do think my brain cells are operating elsewhere, and in a completely different way. Artist and writer friends of mine, who are also mothers, have revealed to me (in differences of opinion) that my brain will never be the same again; or, on the other hand, that when this is all said and done I'll be more creative than ever. We shall see.

Lately it seems that life has been about the extreme, and specifically when I crave simplicity. The news is focused on pirates, ravaged economies, political parties are bashing their opposites over the head with pompousness, anti-abortionists are accusing pro-lifers of murder (as usual), hunters are gassing wolf dens, anyone on television under the age of 40 is dressing like an idiot, etc, etc, etc. Personally, I'm convinced that all this would resolve itself if folks would just be nice to one another. That and stop stop STOP drinking the ignorance Kool-Ade. But what do I know?My only inclination at this point is to hope and pray that my eventual little girl can grow up in a world where ignorance, extremism and arrogance are the exception, not the rule. Where people actually listen to each other.

Enough of my ranting. Too many of these blogs are people spewing opinions and everyday minutia no one really wants to hear, and so I'll relent at least for now, and apologize.

My little town, like so many others, is literally in bloom. The buds of trees are red, orange, pink--and that incredible, life-affirming new green that's almost impossible to capture in a photograph. It's a new kind of leaf-changing that has taken over the mountainsides, and the light hits the ridgelines in a new, hopeful way. Gorgeous. On my way to work two mornings a week, I get to witness deer grazing in fog-filled meadows, wild turkeys crossing from forest to field to creek. I'm thankful.

In this quiet, sometimes lovely, and often boring time of gestation I find my brain whirring from issue to issue--so quickly and confoundingly that all I can think to do is to shut down before I implode. I consider our house, which I love, but which must be cleaned, thinned-out, and organized before we bring a new life into it; our yard, which needs also to be picked up, managed, planted, tended; my career, floundering for a while now, which must be shored, strengthened, revitalized; my friendships, which I've let slide during this time of forgetfulness and question; my relationship with my husband, which I want to enjoy and celebrate before everything changes in both little and big ways; my faith, always moving and shifting like a mountain river; my family, these mountains where we live, hopes for the future, life. Now the fact that a huge change is coming--in August, no less--has me wondering whether I'm ready. I want to change and I don't all at the same time.

For now, here's to a happy Spring for all--to the hope that our country can heal, that the pompous blowhards will humble, that we can all get out and celebrate Earth Day, that life will renew and continue again better than ever. I know it will!

Gov. Sarah Palin's Assault on Unprotected Wolves Has Escalated

2009-03-20T10:37:00.002-04:00

Now, if you can actually believe it, they are tossing poisioned gas into wolf dens containing pregnant mothers and pups. They are still chasing down, exhausting, and shooting wolves from the air and ground. Again, you could spend an entire lifetime in Alaska and never even lay eyes on a gray wolf. Never. How is this considered to be hunting, a normally traditional and honorable practice? I am utterly appalled by this, and by Gov. Palin. I just can't wrap my mind around the reasoning behind this, and I've certainly done my research. I honestly didn't think it could get any worse, but I was wrong.

Please, take the time to view the video below. If you can, donate. I have given, at different times, even as little as $5 to $10. I hope it helps. This is an issue close to my heart, but I truly believe it goes to the heart of morality, to what we teach our children, and to how we treat other living things. I can't imagine the hunters I grew up with--men who were taught by their fathers and grandfathers--ever participating in such a dishonorable and despicable aspect of their sport.

Fortune Cookie Wisdom and Late Winter Snow

2009-03-05T10:42:00.005-05:00

Just this past weekend, I finally succumbed to my husband: I agreed to eat at Twin Dragons, a Chinese restaurant in Brevard--an insane, bevy of buffets from different countries and enormous seating area sort of place with bright lighting and big bellies... if you catch my drift. These places have always made me nervous, even though I've only been to a couple of Ryan's Steakhouses in my life. You see, growing up in my fitness-crazed family, we were forbidden from eating in buffet restaurants (I swear I heard my Dad compare them once to a cattle call). We never went out, like our friends did after church, for Sunday dinner. Oh, heck no. We went running.

So, with my husband I went, and I faithfully even tried several different types of food. But, I'm pregnant and hungry, and so it all worked out in the end... though this will probably be my one and only voluntary adventure into the world of buffet dining, for the remainder of my life.

The point--if there really is one--is the message I found in my token fortune cookie, the one I waited to read (and didn't eat... is that unlucky?) until I was at home, later at my desk. It read: "You are the master of every situation." This struck me, as any good fortune cookie should, because lately I've felt completely lacking of any sort of mastery over my life. I am 18 weeks pregnant, and my body has been taken over by odd exhaustion and forgetfulness and extra weight. I'm 60 pages into a new novel which I started out loving, but now I'm feeling the plot slip away from me like the morning memory of last night's dream... if it was even really there in the first place.

So, of what am I the master? My father, the same buffet-table-protester, would say I am the master (or mistress) of my attitude. And, darn it all, he'd be right. So, today I vow to write--anything--to go to the library to check out books on plotting (because maybe, miraculously, they'll help), to breathe in the chilly air of the this Western North Carolina morning, to be happy. We shall see!

We recently got what most folks in town, I think, are hoping is our last blast of winter--a measely inch of snow earlier this week. But despite the cold, my crocuses are beginning to emerge and bloom buttercup yellow, the forsythia in my backyard is budding, and I've heard more birds chirping in the past few days than in the past few months. These are the things of which to take stock, for which to be thankful. And while I may daydream of spiriting Stuart and Scout (and nameless fetus baby) away to a tropical paradise while I hole up in a Swiss Family Robinson-type treehouse to write, write, write my little heart out, I have decided that it is the little, everyday things that make a true life: the recognition of nature, the thankfulness of warmth on a cold day, the emergence of Spring in a tiny backyard. Sounds idealistic, I know, but backing out of my driveway yesterday it came to me: Paradise is where you make it.

All hail Spring, all hail rebirth! And Happy Thursday. Enjoy the photos taken from our home and from a walk along the Coon Tree Loop Trail, in Pisgah National Forest.

A Work-in-Progress

2009-02-20T10:45:00.003-05:00

Things are looking up: my husband has a new job, I'm working several part-time ones, Spring may not be far, heck--even my scale is moving up (I've made it through 16 weeks of pregnancy). I've put a personal moratorium on reading about the pregnancy process, which I think has helped my addled brain to calm, even if just a bit. Here, in Western North Carolina, the skies are crystalline blue, the air bracingly cold. I think we are all hopeful for Spring, and new life.

I've worked up the gumption to post a taste of my new novel, here. Background: it's a mix of a modern and historical novel with a dash of the supernatural and sci-fi. Sounds ridiculous, I know. But I thought I'd put it out there anyway. The protagonist: Kate Pendragon Hunt, a Southern ex-pat and PhD candidate in British and Italian Renaissance Literature, working on her dissertation in Florence, Italy. She's a modern, practical sort of woman who will soon be caught up in a centuries-old secret, faced with a bevy of past lives and the man she loved throughout them all, and charged with an ancient purpose. I still haven't worked out all the details, and only have 60-ish pages, but here's a go:

Florence, Italy ~ May 2009

When the Olivetan cleared his throat from behind me, I thought immediately: I’ve done it again—I’ve sinned against the church. I stepped back from the ancient stone wall where I’d been bracing one sneaker-clad foot as I stretched my hamstring, dropped my hands from the hem of my tank top and prepared to launch into a litany of Italian phrases, all hopefully signifying abject apology. But the monk only raised one wild, graying eyebrow, threading his fingers together near the knot of his black leather cincture. He leaned back, the heels of his sandals crunching in the gravel courtyard marking the entrance to the church of San Miniato al Monte.

“You are Kate?” He asked in English, his accent heavy with the curling tones of the Florentine.

Startled, I swiped a hand over my sweat-slicked blonde hair and took hold of my long ponytail as if it were an anchor, my elbow crooked out in the air. “Yes,” I said slowly. “Have we met?”

“If you will follow me?” The monk’s eyes—an odd, primordial shade of green, like pollen dregs in the stagnant cove of a mountain lake—widened, and he bowed quite gallantly, holding one arm outstretched. I stepped backwards, the tight ligaments at the insides of my knees bumping the wall.

“But sir,” I babbled, anxious that baring my belly on the grounds of a holy site (I’d lifted my shirt earlier to wipe the sweat from my eyes) would get me thrown into a Florentine prison. “I do apologize. Mi dispiace, Signor. Mi scusi. I didn’t know. I’m so sorry—it won’t happen again.”

The monk smiled, shaking his head. “No, signorina. There is naught to fear. Per favore, to come with me.”

I bit my bottom lip, expelling a short burst of air from my nose. “Okay. Sure, I’ll come. I am sorry.”

He seemed strangely foreboding, even with the sapient green eyes. Maybe it was the black tunic, such a contrast to the fawn colors of the sunrise engulfing the medieval city below us, an incoming tide of buttery gold, rich umber and bronze, warming the terracotta-plated rooftops of the buildings on the far side of the River Arno. But the Olivetan seemed out of place, even with his shorn white hair and coiffed gray beard, and such things ought to be routine: I’d lived in Florence for three months already—I should be used to these guys by now.

He straightened, noticing my hesitance, and the sun flashed on an oddly shaped pendant hanging from a long leather strap at his neck. My eyes went to it immediately, and I stopped fidgeting in the gravel. “What is that?” I asked, my scholar’s brain twitching. “I’ve seen that pattern before.”

I stepped forward almost unconsciously, bending to get a better look. The pendant was of a primitive bronze wolf encircled by a braided silver chain; its eyes were push pin-sized sapphires, and in its mouth, clutched between sharply curved teeth, was a delicate sgian. Embedded in the hilt sat another multi-faceted sapphire, this one much larger, and a paler blue than the others.

“That’s a lady’s dagger,” I said aloud, reaching up a thumb and biting at the pad, a horrible habit of mine. My mind whirred, and I looked up at the monk. “It’s Celtic. Exceptionally early Celtic, possibly even Druidic. But how—?”

He covered the pendant with one dry-knuckled hand, patting it against the loose fabric at his chest. He cleared his throat. “Please, to come with me.”

“But, sir—”

“Come, signorina. Andiamo!” He reached out and took my elbow, tugging me forcefully toward the entrance of the church.

I looked around the courtyard a bit wildly: it was much too early for tourists, still not yet eight o’clock, with a distinct chill in the spring air. Why in the world had I thought today would be the day to see whether I could make the run up to the Piazzale Michelangelo? And why had I pushed myself to jog further, up the winding path to San Miniato?

I licked chapped lips, letting the Olivetan hustle me up a short set of marble steps. He rapped three times in quick succession on the huge wooden doors, and when they were opened by two other nondescript monks he led me into the cool church and down the nave. I pulled back on my own arm to slow him, my sneakers squeaking on the patterned pavement. “Signore, please—you’re scaring me.”

He halted immediately, the crown of his head catching a thick beam of sunlight pouring in through a small, arched window to our right. It lit him and the wooden pews nearby in the palest of gold, and he dropped his chin slightly, his surprising eyes apologetic. “I am sorry, contessa,” he said.

“Bernardo, madainn mhath. You have the American: gle mhath!”

A large, muscular man in a linen shirt and a dully-colored, traditional tartan—good God, could it really be a kilt? I wondered—galloped down the stone steps to the right of the apse. The light hit his long, copper-colored hair, his sideburns and cropped beard threaded with the slightest of silver, and he shaded his eyes with a corded forearm as he neared us. He took the monk’s hand in a beefy grip, then offered me an uncannily old fashioned leg. “I am Conrad Magoon. And you’d be our Kate.”

I snatched my elbow from the Olivetan, rubbing it as I narrowed my eyes. “You’re Scottish,” I said accusingly, recognizing the Gaelic from my studies.

“Aye,” the man replied, with an energetic dip of his square jaw. “I see the plaid gave me away.”

“Is this a joke?” I took a step back from them both, clenching my fists down by my thighs; I was completely out of my element, and it rocked me. “I know I did something stupid, but I certainly didn’t mean to show any disrespect to the Order, or the Church. It was an honest mistake—there’s no need to get the police involved.”

I blinked, nervously licking my dry lips again. “Good Lord,” I started, then blanched. “Sorry. I meant to say, if I had any Euros I’d make a donation. Will you take a donation?”

The Olivetan chuckled, said something in rapid-fire Italian I couldn’t understand, except for “carabinieri,” and the Scot grinned. “We’re not about to have ye tossed in a gaol, lass—is that what you think?”

I looked back and forth between them, and it was then I noticed a petite nun in an indigo habit—a habit color I’d never seen before—standing near the top of the stairs the man Magoon had descended. She looked young, my age or younger, and she walked to the stone balustrade, folding unadorned hands over the squared cement edge. Above her head, the intricately decorated wooden ceiling seemed a playful background with its primary colors of red, green and blue carving out patterns of interlinked diamonds along the beams, and it took me aback. What the hell is going on? I asked myself.

“Bernardo, Conrad,” she called, in a reedy, child-like voice. “Ferma! She is confused.”

“Two Italians and a Scot, what’s next?” I murmured, my eyes flitting from character to character, wondering if I should make a run for it.

Magoon narrowed his eyes at me, and it was then I noticed they, too, were green. He looked to be in his late thirties—about a decade older than I, then—and from his great, muscular neck swung a replica of the wolf pendant the monk wore. Again, my brain whirled, and my gaze shot back to the balustrade and to the nun. At her tiny neck hung what looked to be a leather strap, but from this angle it seemed if she too wore a pendant, it was hidden.

“You’re a cult,” I decided sharply, focusing on the one stranger who apparently spoke native English, “aren’t you?”

Suddenly, a wave of unease hit me and I bent over my bare legs, bracing my hands against my thighs, my fingers slick on the Lycra of my running shorts. I shouldn’t be baring my knees in a cathedral, I thought absently, before the nausea came. “I’m a doctoral candidate in British and Italian Renaissance literature,” I muttered inanely. “I’ll be a really poor bargaining chip. I mean it—no one will want me back enough to pay.”

A large hand curled around my waist, so proprietary and calming I didn’t move a muscle, and didn’t feel the need to.

“We’re not a cult,” Magoon said quietly, somehow steadying me. He moved his other big hand to my nape, cupping it gently. When I raised my head to look at him, he dipped his chin toward the monk. “This is Bernardo Alfonso di Medici, the holy lass is Vedette di Buonarroti di Simoni, and I—again, of course—am formally known as Conrad Cuthbert ban Boswell Magoon. We’re compatriots, of a sort. There are more of us. And we’ve been waiting for you.”

I closed my eyes, felt myself sway. When I opened them again I focused on my hands, my fingers slim and ink-stained where they rested on my thighs, the nails clipped short and neatly square. The silver, Celtic knot band my father had bequeathed me sat solidly on the middle finger of my right hand; my left was bare since I’d returned the diamond solitaire to Luke only a few months ago. Down from my hands my knees and calves were tanned from the sun, and I studied the slight bit of grime caught at the edge of my low-cut cotton socks. I flexed my feet within my running shoes, watched the reflective Nike swooshes move imperceptivity at the heels.

Beneath my shoes was the patterned stone floor of the nave of San Miniato al Monte, an eleventh-century church in which I’d spent hours, a place I’d used as literal sanctuary from my studies and from the entire demanding academic world for the past three months I’d lived in Florence. Could I truly be sequestered here, at this very moment, by a monk, a Scot, and a diminutive nun? It was the opening line of a bad joke: A monk, a nun, and a Scotsman walk into a bar….

“Contessa—Kate—are you unwell? Do you need a drink?” The voice was the Olivetan’s, and it was kind.

“She needs a dram,” Magoon said from above me.

I spoke before I could stop myself: “Desidererei un bicchiere d’acqua.” I shot upright, and Magoon released me immediately. “Oh, God,” I breathed. The air in the nave took on a different texture as dust motes in the sunbeams slanting in from the windows seemed to swirl and unite.

“Cosa?” Bernardo asked.

“I don’t speak Italian,” I said. “I mean, I don’t speak it well, not fluently. Not enough to ask for a glass of water without my dictionary. I repeat: What the hell is going on, and who are you people?”

I felt a bead of sweat, left over from my morning run, roll down between my breasts, pooling in the fabric of my sports bra. I had breakfast with Eduardo—my undergraduate assistant from the Universita degli Studi di Firenze—in only an hour, my apartment in the Palazzo della Signorina filled with research papers and books, my laptop on “sleep” mode, my desk an unholy mess.

This really could not be happening to me.

Magoon touched me again, rubbing his palm along my spine. It felt good, and right, and comforting, and when the words flashed through my mind I stiffened, the thought as clear as white letters on a black chalkboard: This man has been my lover.

“I’m serious,” I said loudly, hearing my Southern accent kick out on a twang. “Y’all better tell me what’s going on before I start screaming. I’m talking screaming to bring the house down. Diva, soprano-type screaming.” I looked up at the warrior-like Magoon, whose green eyes twinkled at me as if he knew me, as if he’d seen me naked. I knew when a man watched me like he’d seen me naked.

“Quit leering,” I ordered through gritted teeth.

The nun, Vedette, called out something high and sweet, but I didn’t catch it in my fury. Bernardo nodded and walked towards me, and Magoon studied me warily, as if waiting for me to make a move. Somehow, I sensed they wanted me up in the area near the crypt of St. Minias.

I held up my hands, palms out, and took a step backwards. “I’m not moving until you explain yourselves.”

Magoon sighed, then reached out and took my right hand in his, engulfing it. I tried to tug away but he held it surely, patting the back of it gently with his left. “It’s a wee bit difficult to explain, see? The truth of it is, we’re travelers: founders of a secret order of warrior-artists, bound by blood and history.”

I choked on a laugh, but I quit pulling back on my hand. These people were nuts, and I was going to turn around and walk out of San Miniato in no more than moments, and get on with my new Italian life. But, good Lord—I was also a scholar, and curiosity always got the better of me. I tugged impatiently on my ponytail with my free hand.

“An order? Like the Freemasons or the Templars, something out of the Middle Ages? Like something out of a freaking Dan Brown novel?”

Bernardo nodded, his hands folded again at his waist. “Si, contessa, but older. We are—how do you say?—a fraternity.”

I laughed, a little wildly. “Oh, just great. So where are your togas? And the keg? Frat parties are never complete without a poorly tapped keg.”

Bernardo glanced at Magoon, and the larger man shrugged and rolled his eyes. The nun clapped her hands, the sound echoing in the almost empty cathedral. The men looked up at her, and when they did she leaned over the edge and her pendant swung down, clinking against the balustrade. It was a wolf, just like the others.

“Tell her!” She called, in light, easy English.

I shook my head to clear it, just to be sure, once again, I wasn’t dreaming. I’d left my apartment at six o’ clock, crossed the Ponte Alle Grazie and made my way through the twisting medieval streets up to the Piazzale, then on to my favorite of churches. I’d passed only a few gypsies setting up shop early on, but no other runners—the Italians did not run—nor tourists attempting a head start on the day. I’d left no note, knowing I’d make it back in plenty of time to shower and meet Eduardo for our usual morning cappuccino.

My eyes blurred, then came into focus on the carved, curling wooden armrest of a pew nearby. The nave was quiet, and above the altar the mosaic of Christ between the Virgin and St. Minias glittered oddly in the light now emanating a rich, full yellow from the windows on the eastern wall. The nun watched me in silence. Bernardo and Magoon studied me with their solemn green eyes, and I felt something inside me click, an internal shifting that made me feel as though I’d suddenly lost all understanding of gravity.

Magoon seemed to sense it, and he moved in front of me, kneeling like a man calmly accepting knighthood. Bernardo followed suit, dropping on one knee and bowing his head. Magoon took the wolf pendant in his right hand, holding it out from his chest.

“We are the Order of the Cwmry-Roman Wolf,” he said, the burr of his accent somehow softer. “It is an order older than the Caesars, older than the church. We serve you, Katharos. Catriona. Katherine of the many names, the many lives. We welcome your return.”

“Bull,” I said clearly. “This is a bunch of bull.”

Magoon shook his head, and Bernardo kept his eyes to the floor. “It’s not,” the big Scot insisted gently. “You’ve just to remember.”

“This is insane,” I repeated, enunciating each syllable as if doing so would make the world clear and right itself, would make this sci-fi movie of a morning go away. “I went for a run, that’s all I did. I’m in Florence to finish my dissertation, then it’s back to the States where I belong. I’ve only got the apartment for a year.”

Magoon lifted the pendant higher, and it caught the light in a quick flash. Take it, he said, though I was sure he couldn’t have spoken aloud. Take hold of the wolf.

Without thought I stepped forward, the toe of my right Nike touching the hem of his tartan where it brushed the stone floor. I blinked, slowly, and watched my own hand as if I were watching the slow-motion replay of a sports film, saw my slender fingers wrap around the wolf pendant, felt the sapphire eyes burn into the tender skin of my palm.

The room sank away, the present tense vanished instantly, there was a blinding light in my eyes and the cool rush of familiar death, and time began to tug at my bones: pictures coming at me as if in a rapid film reel—scenes of people and places I knew as I’d once known the child I’d never had, the mother I’d never known, the lovers I’d not remembered. My lives went by, one by the thousand, and I saw myself naked and enrobed, draped in pelts and clad in sumptuous gowns, a bejeweled crown upon my head, a longbow in my arms, caught screaming at the burning stake, riding bareback on a roan horse.

Then it all went to blue: a deep, royal sea of it, and I floated amoeba-like into oblivion.

Stuck

2009-01-29T09:12:00.003-05:00

As the days here in Western North Carolina keep steadily to the chill and gray of winter, and the bright rush of the holidays have faded and travel kept to a minimum, I'm tempted to do a bit of changing. My inclination now is to hibernate like a black bear, sated on early Autumn blueberries, but some things have occurred in my life that have overwhelmed my brain. I'm 13 weeks pregnant, and my muse is not my own anymore. Or, at least, it feels that way.

So, I'm thinking--God help us all--that I may change this blog to mainly a venue for my thoughts on creativity and writing, and on being pregnant. When I originally started "publishing" here, it was a way for me to keep in contact with family and friends while I was traveling for artist's residencies. Since then, it's evolved into more of a random forum on my life, and whatever I felt like posting at the time. That may still happen, as I am still the high priestess of random.

For the past two months, as I've contemplated actually being pregnant, and my body has been taken over by what my husband and I affectionately call "The Little Demon," I've been STUCK when it comes to my writing. I'd hate to call it writer's block, because that term has always seemed to me to be a bit self-prophetic, but that may be exactly what it is. For the first time in my life, I don't feel as connected to what I've always considered my artistic (and otherwise) purpose: telling as true, entertaining and lovely a story as I possibly can. My mind wheels from one stressful subject to another--from money (my husband just lost his job, I only have a part-time one, and things are downright scary), to holy motherf@#$%&, I'm going to be a mother?!, to why my novel hasn't been picked up by anyone for the the past year (and my agent, who is out of town, hasn't been in contact since I wrote him three weeks ago)--and all I seem to do is get caught up, ripped and bloody, in the damn spokes.

I will never be one of those women whose entire personal universe becomes colored by motherhood. I admire those women, especially now. But as I oscillate between a bit of awe and happiness at the prospect of having a baby, I'm also desperate to get back to the woman I was before... to that writer self who was never particularly focused, but who at least always had a plan.

I hate to say it, because I do feel that letting words out into the ephemera gives them power, but I am stuck. I'd been feverishly working on a new novel, very much in love with what I thought of as its premise, before that little pee stick read "pregnant." Now I'm doubting myself, uncertain of the path of its many-layered plot, and quite literally not sure whether I want to add supernatural elements or simplify the story in an attempt to reach more readers.

Some day, when I feel more confident and purposeful, I may post some chapters here, to see what folks think. Today, I'm going to attempt to concentrate on my craft, fight the pregnancy fatigue and hold the fears at bay.

Newest Article in Mountain Traditions Magazine

2008-12-27T14:38:00.004-05:00

Hi, folks.

Hope everyone had a lovely Christmas!

If you're interested, my newest article in Mountain Traditions Magazine, "Woven By Hand," is available online. Enjoy!

Go to: www.blueridgenow.com
Scroll down on the left side to Special Sections, and click on Mountain Traditions.

Our Christmas "Photo"

2008-12-02T21:58:00.011-05:00

In lieu of a traditional family photo, this year we thought we'd save trees (and money) by downloading some photos here, of a year in the life of the Crawford-Dodsons.

May you find peace, joy and comfort in this season of wonder,"May your days be merry and bright, and may all your Christmases be white."

Our love,

Katie, Stuart & Scout

God Bless America!

2008-11-05T10:02:00.002-05:00

Attributed to AP: Barack Obama's Acceptance Speech, as prepared for delivery on Election Night, November 4, 2008:

"If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is a place where all things are possible; who still wonders if the dream of our founders is alive in our time; who still questions the power of our democracy, tonight is your answer.

It's the answer told by lines that stretched around schools and churches in numbers this nation has never seen; by people who waited three hours and four hours, many for the very first time in their lives, because they believed that this time must be different; that their voice could be that difference.

It's the answer spoken by young and old, rich and poor, Democrat and Republican, black, white, Hispanic, Asian, Native American, gay, straight, disabled and not disabled - Americans who sent a message to the world that we have never been a collection of Red States and Blue States: we are, and always will be, the United States of America.

It's the answer that led those who have been told for so long by so many to be cynical, and fearful, and doubtful of what we can achieve to put their hands on the arc of history and bend it once more toward the hope of a better day.

It's been a long time coming, but tonight, because of what we did on this day, in this election, at this defining moment, change has come to America.

I just received a very gracious call from Senator McCain. He fought long and hard in this campaign, and he's fought even longer and harder for the country he loves. He has endured sacrifices for America that most of us cannot begin to imagine, and we are better off for the service rendered by this brave and selfless leader. I congratulate him and Governor Palin for all they have achieved, and I look forward to working with them to renew this nation's promise in the months ahead.

I want to thank my partner in this journey, a man who campaigned from his heart and spoke for the men and women he grew up with on the streets of Scranton and rode with on that train home to Delaware, the Vice President-elect of the United States, Joe Biden.

I would not be standing here tonight without the unyielding support of my best friend for the last sixteen years, the rock of our family and the love of my life, our nation's next First Lady, Michelle Obama. Sasha and Malia, I love you both so much, and you have earned the new puppy that's coming with us to the White House. And while she's no longer with us, I know my grandmother is watching, along with the family that made me who I am. I miss them tonight, and know that my debt to them is beyond measure.

To my campaign manager David Plouffe, my chief strategist David Axelrod, and the best campaign team ever assembled in the history of politics - you made this happen, and I am forever grateful for what you've sacrificed to get it done.

But above all, I will never forget who this victory truly belongs to - it belongs to you.

I was never the likeliest candidate for this office. We didn't start with much money or many endorsements. Our campaign was not hatched in the halls of Washington - it began in the backyards of Des Moines and the living rooms of Concord and the front porches of Charleston.

It was built by working men and women who dug into what little savings they had to give five dollars and ten dollars and twenty dollars to this cause. It grew strength from the young people who rejected the myth of their generation's apathy; who left their homes and their families for jobs that offered little pay and less sleep; from the not-so-young people who braved the bitter cold and scorching heat to knock on the doors of perfect strangers; from the millions of Americans who volunteered, and organized, and proved that more than two centuries later, a government of the people, by the people and for the people has not perished from this Earth. This is your victory.

I know you didn't do this just to win an election and I know you didn't do it for me. You did it because you understand the enormity of the task that lies ahead. For even as we celebrate tonight, we know the challenges that tomorrow will bring are the greatest of our lifetime - two wars, a planet in peril, the worst financial crisis in a century. Even as we stand here tonight, we know there are brave Americans waking up in the deserts of Iraq and the mountains of Afghanistan to risk their lives for us. There are mothers and fathers who will lie awake after their children fall asleep and wonder how they'll make the mortgage, or pay their doctor's bills, or save enough for college. There is new energy to harness and new jobs to be created; new schools to build and threats to meet and alliances to repair.

The road ahead will be long. Our climb will be steep. We may not get there in one year or even one term, but America - I have never been more hopeful than I am tonight that we will get there. I promise you - we as a people will get there.

There will be setbacks and false starts. There are many who won't agree with every decision or policy I make as President, and we know that government can't solve every problem. But I will always be honest with you about the challenges we face. I will listen to you, especially when we disagree. And above all, I will ask you join in the work of remaking this nation the only way it's been done in America for two-hundred and twenty-one years - block by block, brick by brick, calloused hand by calloused hand.

What began twenty-one months ago in the depths of winter must not end on this autumn night. This victory alone is not the change we seek - it is only the chance for us to make that change. And that cannot happen if we go back to the way things were. It cannot happen without you.

So let us summon a new spirit of patriotism; of service and responsibility where each of us resolves to pitch in and work harder and look after not only ourselves, but each other. Let us remember that if this financial crisis taught us anything, it's that we cannot have a thriving Wall Street while Main Street suffers - in this country, we rise or fall as one nation; as one people.

Let us resist the temptation to fall back on the same partisanship and pettiness and immaturity that has poisoned our politics for so long. Let us remember that it was a man from this state who first carried the banner of the Republican Party to the White House - a party founded on the values of self-reliance, individual liberty, and national unity. Those are values we all share, and while the Democratic Party has won a great victory tonight, we do so with a measure of humility and determination to heal the divides that have held back our progress. As Lincoln said to a nation far more divided than ours, "We are not enemies, but friends...though passion may have strained it must not break our bonds of affection." And to those Americans whose support I have yet to earn - I may not have won your vote, but I hear your voices, I need your help, and I will be your President too.

And to all those watching tonight from beyond our shores, from parliaments and palaces to those who are huddled around radios in the forgotten corners of our world - our stories are singular, but our destiny is shared, and a new dawn of American leadership is at hand. To those who would tear this world down - we will defeat you. To those who seek peace and security - we support you. And to all those who have wondered if America's beacon still burns as bright - tonight we proved once more that the true strength of our nation comes not from our the might of our arms or the scale of our wealth, but from the enduring power of our ideals: democracy, liberty, opportunity, and unyielding hope.

For that is the true genius of America - that America can change. Our union can be perfected. And what we have already achieved gives us hope for what we can and must achieve tomorrow.

This election had many firsts and many stories that will be told for generations. But one that's on my mind tonight is about a woman who cast her ballot in Atlanta. She's a lot like the millions of others who stood in line to make their voice heard in this election except for one thing - Ann Nixon Cooper is 106 years old.

She was born just a generation past slavery; a time when there were no cars on the road or planes in the sky; when someone like her couldn't vote for two reasons - because she was a woman and because of the color of her skin.

And tonight, I think about all that she's seen throughout her century in America - the heartache and the hope; the struggle and the progress; the times we were told that we can't, and the people who pressed on with that American creed: Yes we can.

At a time when women's voices were silenced and their hopes dismissed, she lived to see them stand up and speak out and reach for the ballot. Yes we can.

When there was despair in the dust bowl and depression across the land, she saw a nation conquer fear itself with a New Deal, new jobs and a new sense of common purpose. Yes we can.

When the bombs fell on our harbor and tyranny threatened the world, she was there to witness a generation rise to greatness and a democracy was saved. Yes we can.

She was there for the buses in Montgomery, the hoses in Birmingham, a bridge in Selma, and a preacher from Atlanta who told a people that "We Shall Overcome." Yes we can.

A man touched down on the moon, a wall came down in Berlin, a world was connected by our own science and imagination. And this year, in this election, she touched her finger to a screen, and cast her vote, because after 106 years in America, through the best of times and the darkest of hours, she knows how America can change. Yes we can.

America, we have come so far. We have seen so much. But there is so much more to do. So tonight, let us ask ourselves - if our children should live to see the next century; if my daughters should be so lucky to live as long as Ann Nixon Cooper, what change will they see? What progress will we have made?

This is our chance to answer that call. This is our moment. This is our time - to put our people back to work and open doors of opportunity for our kids; to restore prosperity and promote the cause of peace; to reclaim the American Dream and reaffirm that fundamental truth - that out of many, we are one; that while we breathe, we hope, and where we are met with cynicism, and doubt, and those who tell us that we can't, we will respond with that timeless creed that sums up the spirit of a people:

Yes We Can. Thank you, God bless you, and may God Bless the United States of America."

Politics in America

2008-11-02T10:58:00.002-05:00

For the upcoming election, I offer these quotations:

"I'm in love with this country called 'America.' I'm a huge fan of America. I'm one of those annoying fans--you know, the ones that read the CD notes and follow you into bathrooms and ask you all kinds of annoying questions about why you didn't live up to that. I'm that kind of fan. I've read the Declaration of Independence, and I've read the Constitution of the United States, and they are some liner notes, dude."
~ Bono

"Remember, remember always that all of us, and you and I especially, are descended from immigrants and revolutionists."
~ Franklin D. Roosevelt

"I want either less corruption, or more of chance to participate in it."
~ Ashleigh Brilliant

"If you can't convince them, confuse them."
~ Harry S. Truman

"In politics stupidity is not a handicap."
~ Napoleon Bonaparte

"Politics is not a bad profession. If you succeed there are many rewards, if you disgrace yourself you can always write a book."
~ Ronald Reagan

"The price of freedom is eternal vigilance."
~ Thomas Jefferson

"Vote early and vote often."
~ Al Capone

"What luck for the rulers that men do not think."
~ Adolf Hitler

"Sometimes it has been said that man cannot be trusted with the governmen of himself. Can he, then, be trusted with the government of others? Or have we found angels in the forms of kings to govern him? Let history answer this question."
~ Thomas Jefferson

"Politicians are like diapers. They both need changing regularly and for the same reason."
~ Anonymous

"Take our politicians: they're a bunch of yo-yos. The presidency is now a cross between a popularity contest and a high school debate, with an encyclopedia of cliches the first prize."
~ Saul Bellow

"We have, I fear, confused power with greatness."
~ Stewart Udall

"The problem with political jokes is they get elected."
~ Henry Cate VII

"A politician thinks of the next election; a statesman thinks of the next generation."
~ James Freeman Clarke, Sermon

"As you know, my position is clear -- I'm the Commander Guy."
~ George W. Bush

"Liberty means responsibility. That is why most men dread it."
~ George Bernard Shaw

"The short memories of American voters is what keeps our politicians in office."
~ Will Rogers

"I never considered a difference of opinion in politics, in religion, in philosophy, as cause for withdrawing from a friend."
~ Thomas Jefferson

"Let us tenderly and kindly cherish, therefore, the means of knowledge. Let us dare to read, think, speak, and write."
~ John Adams

"Any people anywhere, being inclined and having the power, have the right to rise up, and shake off the existing government, and form a new one that suits them better. This is a most valuable - a most sacred right - a right, which we hope and believe, is to liberate the world."
~ Abraham Lincoln

"I don't like that man. I must get to know him better."
~ Abraham Lincoln

"I am more and more convinced that Man is a dangerous creature, and that power whether vested in many or a few is ever grasping, and like the grave cries give, give. The great fish swallow up the small, and he who is most strenuous for the Rights of the people, when vested with power, is as eager after the prerogatives of Government. You tell me of degrees of perfection to which Humane Nature is capable of arriving, and I believe it, but at the same time lament that our admiration should arise from the scarcity of the instances."
~ Abigail Adams

Snow in October, Hallowe'en in My Head

2008-10-31T08:40:00.005-04:00

On Tuesday morning, it snowed in Brevard. And not just a few, miserly flakes: the stuff came down--so thick it hid the mountains from view, and made my drive to work feel like inching through a blizzard. But, because it is the South and only October, it melted by 9 a.m.

I am a fool for snow. If it had stuck around long enough, I would've tromped my students outside to stand in it, and somehow managed to make the weather relate to writing... just so I could get my time in before it melted. I come by this snowmadness honestly: When I was growing up in South Carolina, my parents--especially my Dad--made snow days more magical than Christmas. (And Christmas was pretty freaking magical in my house.)

The year of the Big Snow, something everyone who grew up in the '80s in Greenville, S.C. still talks about, it snowed well over a foot, and school was out for nearly two weeks. My father took buckets of water and washed down our driveway and road, so it'd be perfectly slick for sledding. He and his friends tied our sleds with old ski ropes to the back of someone's Waggoneer, and they tugged us around our neighborhood for hours, the moms in the way back with the hatch open, giggling and hanging on. We sledded for hours down the hill near a local Baptist church, a gang of StayPuff marshmellow kids in our snowskiing gear (bibs, jackets, gloves, boots, hats)--which the nearest house with the nearest mom would dump into her dryer, filling us with hot chocolate before sending us out again.

My neighbors, formerly of the coast, pulled out their surfboards and removed the fins, and we surfed down the hill in front of my house. My black lab, Magic, raced circles around the house in a blur of white. Each morning, my sister and I woke up, raced to our parents' bedroom where they had the radio on by their bed, to wait anxiously to hear whether My 102.5 would announce that school was cancelled again in Greenville County. My God, it was magic.

It doesn't snow much any more. And even though I've moved to the mountains of Western North Carolina, a much higher elevation than my hometown, I've only seen a few inches each year--mostly ice--that melts in a day, leaves me sad and a little slushy. I long for those preternatural sunrises, pressing my face to my cold bedroom window and praying that my world would still be white. I miss the igloo my Dad and his friends built us, the real fires in the fireplaces, the way my neighborhood became a festival of friends for two straight weeks, the fun neverending.

But now, there's Hallowe'en in my head. Feile Samhna to all! Happiest of All Souls' Days, All Hallow's Eves, the night just before Samhain, the night when the door supposedly creaks open between this world and the next, and the spirits roam. No matter what anyone says, or how much we've 'roided Hallowe'en up with commercialism, it is a preternatural night: a night our ancestors (just about all of them, no matter what your DNA looks like) recognized as different. If you stand outside in the chilly dark tonight, away from the squealing kids and orange lights and ringing doorbells, you might feel it brush your face, give you a little shiver. If you do, I say you're lucky. Hallowe'en has many faces, many traditions, many legends associated with it... and not all are scary.

My husband and I have been debating for a week about what to do with ourselves tonight. Our neighborhood, which is not even a half mile from downtown, will become swamped with trick-or-treating children at about 6 p.m., and will not cease until after 10 p.m. They are mini-vanned in from all corners of the county... and sometimes the street up from us is blocked off by police cars so the kids can wander freely. It's not anything out of the ordinary for folks in our neighborhood to spend $400 on candy each year.

Suffice to say, we cannot afford this. And so, we flee after a time... and I think that's what we'll do tonight. But first, we'll buy a couple of bags of candy from the dollar store--if they've any left--and pass it out to the first little ghouls, the cutest ones of the entire night, and then we'll walk downtown to eat, maybe to a movie. We'll leave Scout, our dog, to guard the dark house.

For the Scottish poet Rabbie Burns's famous poem about Hallowe'en, check out: http://www.djmcadam.com/halloween.htm

For an interesting article on the Celtic origins of Hallwe'en, go to: http://www.newacropolisuk.org/ShowArticle.php?artid=6

Apple Picking in Western North Carolina

2008-10-15T10:35:00.006-04:00

What a gorgeous weekend, and Columbus Day. I spent it picking apples with my dear friends the Mountcastles (including dog Woody) at the Stepp Family Orchard in Edneyville, N.C. It was an incredible day: October-blue skies, bright sun, and apples of all kinds: Gala, Mutsu, Golden Delicious, Red Delicious, Crispin, Arkansas Black, Granny Smith, and more!

We filled our baskets to the brim, fed the neighbor's horses, and took plenty of photos. I loved spending the day, most especially, with Hardy and Heyden Mountcastle, the two coolest boys I know.

Sam's Knob Backpack

2008-10-06T09:30:00.014-04:00

Ah, cooling, crisp, aquamarine-skied Autumn. October is absolutely my favorite month in the North Carolina mountains. The summer humidity has retreated, the skies are clear, mornings are foggy and icy, and the landscape turns all shades of fire.

Our little town of Brevard is filling up with tourists once again: they come in droves (and minivans and SUVs bearing Florida, Georgia, and South Carolina tags) to take in Fall in the mountains. And even when they drive exceedingly slow and block traffic because they have no clue where they're going and refuse to pull over to find out, I'm happy they're here. In these increasingly sad economic times, they bring sustenance to our local businesses. (Now, if they could only increase the number of students attending Brevard College, I'd have a job next semester.)

I spent most of the weekend with three fabulous friends--Erin McManus, Mike La Voie and Liddell Shannon (plus dogs Finn and Scout)--in Pisgah National Forest, up above the Blue Ridge Parkway at an area called Sam's Knob. The colors were incredible, and will surely be peaking at that elevation by next weekend (Note to leaf-watchers headed to the area). We hiked out on Saturday--our packs overflowing with a ridiculous amount of food and adult beverages--to celebrate Erin's 32nd birthday in the woods. We secured a prime campsite along rocky, gurgling Laurel Creek, built a fire, and enjoyed Mike's fabulous cooking: cheese, proscuitto and fresh bread appetizer, wine, beer, and pasta with red sauce and shrimp.

We told ghost stories (and some real ones) around the campfire, checked out the stars and settled in. Were interrupted rudely in the early AM by a couple of drunk guys who stumbled through our campsite and fired their headlamps into our tents. At the dogs' growling, they departed--but not before they poked and prodded at our bear bags full of food and trash. Punks.

Early the next morning (because my dog is like an antsy two year-old) I woke and took a solo walk down the trail in the frost, breath fogging in front of my face. The woods were silent, the creek bubbling, and ice magically coated everything, turning the earth crystal in the rising sun. I breathed in the cold, fresh air, and thanked the Divine for all of it.

Now it's time to return to the world of grading papers, trying to write a second, better novel, and attempting to better and enjoy my home and family. The most reassuring aspect of it all is that I can return to Sam's Knob and the forest just about any time I want. Such is the glory of living here. Again, I say, "Ah."

(Photos graciously supplied by Ms. Liddell Shannon.)

On the Passing of Paul Newman

2008-09-29T11:20:00.003-04:00

"The light that you think you emanate is not necessarily the light that other people see. You think of yourself as a shy, retiring whatever it is, and some other people will see you in an entirely different way. ... You have to constantly learn. Obviously, you have to start with some kind of gift, but people don't understand that. ... I don't have a gift for anything. I've only had a gift of pursuit."
~ Paul Newman, 1990

Paul L. Newman, one of my favorite actors and all-around class acts, passed away of cancer at age 83. Below is a link to his official obit from the L.A. Times:

http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/thedishrag/2008/09/paul-newmans-of.html

"Deep Breathing Under Big Sky" in South Loop Review, Vol. 10

2008-09-19T16:23:00.005-04:00

An excerpt of my creative nonfiction piece, "Deep Breathing Under Big Sky," has been published in Columbia College Chicago's literary journal South Loop Review, Vol. 10. Access to several of the pieces in this issue are available at their website, http://english.colum.edu/southloop/.

However, "Deep Breathing..." is not available online at this site but only in the print edition, since it appeared before in the Santa Fe Writer's Project online literary journal. To purchase South Loop Review, Vol. 10, go to the Columbia College Chicago bookstore at http://www.bkstr.com/webapp/wcs/stores/servlet/StoreCatalogDisplay?storeId=10369&langId=-1&catalogId=10001.

To read the piece in its entirety, if you haven't already, go to the Santa Fe Writer's Project online literary journal at http://sfwp.org/, scroll down to Monthly Archives, and click on March 2008.

Hope you enjoy!

~ K

Election Time Again

2008-09-15T09:21:00.003-04:00

I really don't want to get into politics on my "writing" blog, so I'll refrain lest my head explode like a watermelon being hit by a fast ball. But I must post the link to a video below, because it's hysterical. It's SNL actresses Tina Fey and Amy Poehler as Sarah Palin and Hilary Clinton.

Check it out:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QnRUKIMegn8

My newest article in Mountain Traditions magazine

2008-09-03T12:43:00.004-04:00

Hey there, fine folks.

My most recent article is currently appearing in the Summer Issue of Mountain Traditions magazine. It features the Kanuga Watercolor/Watermedia Workshops, a gathering of painters and painting instructors held over the Spring at the Kangua Conference Center near Hendersonville, N.C.

If you're interested in reading it, go to:

www.blueridgenow.com
Scroll down to "Special Sections," at the bottom left side of the page.
Click on "Mountain Traditions," or on the magazine cover photo of white goats.
The magazine itself will appear, and you can flip through it online.
My article, "Brush Strokes," begins on p. 62.

Hope you enjoy!

On This Day in 1920...

2008-08-26T11:17:00.003-04:00

Women FINALLY won the right to vote!

Today is the anniversary of the Nineteenth Amendment to the Constitution, which on August 26, 1920 granted women the right to vote. It had been a battle waging for over 100 years, led by brave, strong, resilient women to whom we owe so much.

On this day 88 years ago, Tennessee became the 36th state to ratify. A Nashvillian named Harry Burn (the youngest member of the TN legislature) broke the tie with a "yea" vote for women. The legislators had come decked out in their colors: the Suffragists wore yellow roses, the Anti-Suffragists red. Well, Harry came wearing red, but voted in opposition to the color because of a telegram he had tucked in his suit pocket--one from his MOTHER, urging him to back the women.

If you're interested, the full article is here: http://www.blueshoenashville.com/suffragehistory.html

Some of the arguments against women's suffrage included:
- Women are emotional creatures, incapable of making sound political decisions.
- If women become involved in politics, they will stop marrying and having children, and the human race will die out.
- Most women do not want the vote.
- Women are already represented by their husbands.
- Women are too "precious and innocent" to become embroiled in public life.
- The physcial nature of women "unfits them for direct competition with men."

Last night Michelle Obama thanked Hilary Clinton for putting "18 million cracks in the glass ceiling." Well, she is certainly only one of many, including all our mothers, aunts, grandmothers, great-grandmothers, and more. Hopefully we've all had a woman in our lives who urged us to speak with our own unique voice, to know without a doubt that the whole of our worth is most definitely NOT determined by our sex.

We've come along way, baby--but we've still got a long way to go. Currently, women earn only 76 or 77 cents to the man's dollar, for the same job. Equal work for equal pay is a dream that still has yet to be realized.

Rock on, sisters.

* Photos borrowed from www.womenshistory.about.com.

Backpacking in the Shining Rock Wilderness

2008-08-25T15:57:00.011-04:00

Spent a glorious overnight with my fabulous friend Liddell, and dog Scout, in the Shining Rock Wilderness Area of western North Carolina--a pristine lay of mountainous land accessible from the Blue Ridge Parkway.

We hiked out from the Black Balsalm parking "lot" on Saturday morning, and headed 6 miles or more into Shining Rock, where we found a beaut of a campsite in an enchanted glen. We ate mac-in-cheese, woke to chill and mist, played on huge blocks of white quartzite, and had a great time. We hiked back out on Sunday, ran into a group of High Rocks Fall campers with an old friend of ours as their guide, and headed home in different directions. Scout and I spent Sunday on the same couch, sore and happy.

As Liddell likes to say, "We are good at life. We are definitely winning."

Bon Voyage Dunlaps!

2008-08-04T10:16:00.005-04:00

Over the weekend we were in Athens, GA to celebrate some of our best friends: Rudy & Danielle Dunlap. Rudy has just completed his PhD and is now a "Doctor of Leisure," who will soon be professing at Texas A&M. Danielle, who's been busting her tail for years so the Rudeman could pursue this goal, has now been released--as her family calls it--from "indentured servitude." GOOOOO Dunlaps! We are so proud!

We wish them the best in their new home in College Station, Texas! Look for the Dodfords to visit in 2009!

Elusive, Irrepressible Summer...

2008-07-23T11:12:00.005-04:00

Ah, summer: a time when--if you're like us and without air conditioning--you sleep on top of cool sheets, the fan blowing at full speed; thunderstorms rumble from afar in the late afternoon; and life seems to quicken and slow, all at the same time.

I thought I'd include some summertime quotes for your reading enjoyment. The photos here are from a wonderful week at the Lawdy Mercy beachhouse, with wonderful friends and family.

"Summer is the time when one sheds one's tensions with one's clothes, and the right kind of day is jeweled balm for the battered spirit. A few of those days and you can become drunk with the belief that all's right with the world."
~ Ada Louise Huxtable

"The dandelions and buttercups gild all the lawn: the drowsy bee stumbles among the clover tops, and summer sweetens all to me."
~ James Russell Lowell

"The Summer looks out from her brazen tower,
Through the flashing bars of July."
~ Francis Thompson

"The summer night is like a perfection of thought."
~ Wallace Stevens

"Then followed that beautiful season... Summer....
Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape
Lay as if new created in all the freshness of childhood."
~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

"What dreadful hot weather we have! It keeps me in a continual state of inelegance."
~ Jane Austen

"Oh, the summer night
Has a smile of light
And she sits on a sapphire throne."
~ Barry Cornwall

Update on the Crawdod/Dodford Life

2008-06-27T10:58:00.005-04:00

A couple of big events have occurred over the past couple of weeks: I surprised Stuart for his 40th birthday with a trip to Savannah, and to a Victorian Inn on Tybee Island. We had a lovely trip, and I've added some photos.

Yesterday Stu-baby and I celebrated our 4th anniversary. We celebrated with Jet's Pizza, time in our backyard, and a West Wing DVD watched on our laptop, since our DVD player hit the skids a few weeks ago. We are AWESOME.

I hope all your summers are full of lightening bug nights, cold drinks, good friends, bare feet, and long, easy sighs.

STUBABY TURNS 40!

2008-06-15T21:50:00.009-04:00

A hearty "thanks" to the awesome friends who came from near and far to celebrate Stuart's 40th birthday Saturday night! A good time was most certainly had by all, especially by the birthday boy, who just now told me, "I had such a good time, I'm sorry to see it end."

Highlights: The Gummy Bear Cake (and Stuart biting off the head of the gummy god), beers in the backyard beneath twinkling white lights, listening to the giggling, tipsy, birthday boy--and watching him stumble his way home, high on a 40 ounce beer, a tequila shot the size of a baseball, but mostly pure happiness at being with good friends.

You are all the finest of folks, and we love you. Enjoy the photos:

The Writing (or not) Life

2008-05-08T12:13:00.003-04:00

Well, since it's been a good, long while since I've last written here, I thought I'd add a thought or two.

I'm at home alone quite a lot, and I feel I'm turning into a sort of recluse. Soon I'll grow that hump on my back like all bonafied hermits eventually do, and I'll start shading my eyes and making an ogrely grimace each time I emerge outside into sunlight. All kidding aside, I do feel at times trapped and blessed by my alone time--my writerly existence.

Recently, I wrote an article for a WNC magazine called Mountain Traditions, which will be included in their next issue. It's about the Kanuga Watercolor/Watermedia Workshops, held each year at the Kanuga Conference Center near Hendersonville. And truly was great fun to get out and be a reporter again for a couple of days.

There's not been any good news from my agent about my historical novel. Some days I wonder that this bird might never fly. But I'm at work on a second, and I've already written its final scene. Now I just have to ignore the voices in my head: the ones whispering of other ideas, other story lines and characters. They are seductive and dangerous, and I've been fighting them my entire writing life.

Since I've nothing else to say, I won't. But I'm feeling a little like William Faulkner today, whose one-liners always give me strength:

"My own experience has been that the tools I use for my trade are paper, tobacco, food and a little whiskey."

HAPPY EARTH DAY, Y'ALL!

2008-04-22T09:35:00.006-04:00

I love Earth Day. It's a reminder that we live on this incredible, life-sustaining, gift of a planet, and that we're only here for a short time. What trust we hold in our hands, to protect and preserve that planet for the folks who come after us.

I love Earth Day, because it reminds me to ignore the nay-sayers, the ones who call me a "hippy," or God forbid--a "liberal"--for caring so much. For wanting things to change. For reaching out to people and reminding them of this day, this promise made.

I love Earth Day, because it's a chance for me to give thanks for that gift, to remember the life I've lived outside and in the sun and rain, for the enjoyment I've taken in natural things.

I love Earth Day, because more than anything, it reminds me that we're all in it together. That though we may disagree about which God to worship or which car to drive or which candidate to support, we are connected by a gorgeous, fragile thread. That a woodsman in Canada feels the effects of my car exhaust in North Carolina, that in Africa a family may use the seeds of a Kansas wheat farmer. That we're not alone.

I love Earth Day because loving the planet is a mirror image of loving God, of seeking progress and peace.

But others have said it far better than I ever could, and their thoughts--irreverent, funny, sarcastic, hopeful--are below:

"Opie, you haven't finished your milk. We can't put it back in the cow, you know."
~Aunt Bee Taylor, The Andy Griffith Show

"The ultimate test of man's conscience may be his willingness to sacrifice something today for future generations whose words of thanks will not be heard."
- Gaylord Nelson, former governor of Wisconsin, founder of Earth Day

"Let the clean air blow the cobwebs from your body. Air is medicine."
- Lillian Russell (1862-1922), quoted in Reader's Digest, March 1922

"Economic advance is not the same thing as human progress."
~John Clapham, A Concise Economic History of Britain, 1957

"The activist is not the man who says the river is dirty. The activist is the man who cleans up the river."
~Ross Perot

"It is horrifying that we have to fight our own government to save the environment."
~Ansel Adams

"Ironically, rural America has become viewed by a growing number of Americans as having a higher [quality of life] not because of what it has, but rather because of what it does not have!"
~Don A. Dillman, Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science, January 1977

"Today's world is one in which the age-old risks of humankind - the drought, floods, communicable diseases - are less of a problem than ever before. They have been replaced by risks of humanity's own making - the unintended side-effects of beneficial technologies and the intended effects of the technologies of war. Society must hope that the world's ability to assess and manage risks will keep pace with its ability to create them."
~J. Clarence Davies, quoted in Conservation Foundation, State of the Environment: An Assessment at Mid-Decade, 1984

"All that is necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing."
— Edmund Burke

"You go into a community and they will vote 80 percent to 20 percent in favor of a tougher Clean Air Act, but if you ask them to devote 20 minutes a year to having their car emissions inspected, they will vote 80 to 20 against it. We are a long way in this country from taking individual responsibility for the environmental problem."
~William D. Ruckelshaus, former EPA administrator, New York Times, 30 November 1988

"We are monumentally distracted by a pervasive technological culture that appears to have a life of its own, one that insists on our full attention, continually seducing us and pulling us away from the opportunity to experience directly the true meaning of our own lives."
— Al Gore

"Thousands of tired, nerve-shaken, over-civilized people are beginning to find out that going to the mountains is going home; that wilderness is a necessity; and that mountain parks and reservations are useful not only as fountains of timber and irrigating rivers, but as fountains of life."
— John Muir

"Pollution should never be the price of prosperity."
— Al Gore, in a 2000 presidential-campaign speech

"Nature provides a free lunch, but only if we control our appetites."
- William Ruckelshaus, first EPA Adminstrator, (1970-1973 and 1983-1985), Business Week, June 18, 1990.

"All nature wears one universal grin."
- Henry Fielding (1707-1754), Tom Thumb the Great, 1730.

Away, away, from men and towns,
To the wild wood and the downs, --
To the silent wilderness,
Where the soul need not repress
Its music."
- Percy Bysshe Shelley, (1792-1822), "To Jane, The Invitation," c.1820

"He who knows what sweets and virtues are in the ground, the waters, the plants, the heavens, and how to come at these enchantments, is the rich and royal man."
- Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882), Essays, Second Series, 1844

"The Wilderness and the idea of wilderness is one of the permanent homes of the human spirit."
- Joseph Wood Krutch (1893-1970), Today and All Its Yesterdays, 1958.

Long Live the Fishmongers!

2008-03-26T10:50:00.009-04:00

Raging waves, body-blocking wind, and sheer beauty: that's what I've come to know as the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Stuart and I stayed in the village of Salvo, on Hatteras Island, with my cousin Lindsay and her husband James, for a few days last week.

Lindsay and James, good teachers that they are, were off on Spring Break, and rented a house there. The house is called the Starry Night, and it's a fabulous two story beachhouse, high on stilts, overlooking about 50 yards of wind-swept dunes and the Atlantic. We had a lovely time in the livingroom with its panoramic windows, cooking great seafood meals, watching NCAA basketball and movies, sunsets and moonrises, and just hanging out. Scout, our lab, bounded down the beach with pure joy. (She was raised on Folly Island in S.C., and knows a good beach when she sees one.) Scout also very much enjoyed time with her dog cousin, a precocious beagle named Sally.

One of the days, we took the ferry over to Ocracoke, where we explored the island via car and foot, ate a delicious lunch at Howard's Pub, did some lighthouse and harbor viewing, toured the graveyard of the British soldiers lost at sea nearby, and had ice cream... despite the chill in the air. It was a gorgeous day: achingly blue skies, a relatively calm sea (for the Outer Banks), and miles of sun-gilded sand.

For me, a South Carolinian raised on the relatively languid, humid and white beaches of that fair state, the Outer Banks was a whole new experience. This time of year, at least, it's not a sit-on-the-sand type of place, but instead a series of islands to explore, cast out like rough-edged jewels from the mainland... the rugged pearls of an island princess. You could spend hours walking its beaches, fishing, riding bikes (all should you dare to bear the dangerous wind), searching for shipwrecks in the foam. Like us, you could explore lighthouses, the monsterous dunes of Jockey's Ridge, the eeriely quiet woods of Roanoke Island, where the Lost Colony was. All this visit has done is whet my appetite, and I know I shall return.

Interesting to note: you can drive on the beaches here, which I never would've guessed! (And I'm very aware of the need-to-fish argument.) It's just a little disconcerting to see big ol' trucks in this seemingly pristine place. I wonder what it's like in the summertime? Also... the wild ponies of Ocracoke aren't so... well, wild. They're in huge pens... which we all found a little amusing. (Again, completely aware of the not-wanting-them-to-be-hit-by-cars theory.)

Also interesting: there are cactus-like plants on the island there! If you see one, beware: they're like sand spurs on steroids--little green pods with two-inch long spikes.

Our thanks to Lindsay and James, friends extraordinaire, for being our hosts. We needed a little break from our reality lately! May the Fishmongers (our newly anointed Outer Banks band... not sure who will sing) ever reign!

Published!

2008-03-14T11:52:00.002-04:00

Hey, y'all!

My creative nonfiction piece, "Deep Breathing Under Big Sky," has been published on the Santa Fe Writers' Project online literary journal. If you're interested, see the link below (you may have to copy and paste into your browser).

http://www.sfwp.org/index.php

I wrote this while at the Montana Artists Refuge, back in October 2007. I hope you enjoy!

Santa Fe Writers' Project 2007 Literary Award Winners Announced!

2008-03-10T10:15:00.004-04:00

I'm happy to announce that my creative nonfiction essay, "Deep Breathing Under Big Sky," was awarded Third Place in the Santa Fe Writers' Project 2007 Literary Awards Program. To top it off, the prize for Third Place is $1,000, so I couldn't be more thrilled.

This year's submissions (all 320) were judged by Pulitzer Prize-winning author Robert Olen Butler. For more information about the Santa Fe Writers' Project (they also have an independent press) and the 2007 Literary Awards Program, go to www.sfwp.org. To see my name (smiling) and the winners announced, go to the blue box on the right side of the page, "2007 Literary Awards Program Winners Announced," and click on the link there.

Whenever they publish my piece in their online literary journal, I'll add it to the blog here. I've had to send in a photo and bio for the site (the photo is above).

Thanks to all you wonderful family and friends who continue to support and encourage me as I pursue "the writing life." My love and appreciation to you all!

Back in the Saddle Again

2008-03-06T15:46:00.007-05:00

When I exited Johnson, Vermont, at 5 a.m. the morning of February 29, it was -21 degrees Farenheit with three feet (at least) of snow on the ground. No lie: the boogers literally froze in my nose, a most disconcerting feeling. Now, I'm back in the mountains of Western North Carolina, it's in the upper 40s, and the daffodils and crocuses (crocusi?) are in bloom. Insanity.

Being home is a study in transition. I'm happy beyond belief to be back with Stuart and Scout, and in our awesome little cottage in our awesome little town. I'm trying to hold on to the feeling of being energized by writing and my hopeful career, while also staying focused on finding a job. Brevard College has asked me to teach again in the Fall, and so I need to find something--at least--I can do, and make money at, until then.

Stuart was laid off in late February, and has been diligently searching for a new job since. He's had several interviews, made several good connections, but no luck yet. We're hopeful. If we don't have to, we don't want to move. But right now, we're ready for anything. Any company would be lucky to have him: he's brilliant, creative, hard-working, insightful, experienced, talented and loyal, to say the least.

As for me, I'm working right now on a novel I began just before leaving for the Vermont Studio Center. While there, I completed about four chapters--VERY rough draft--of it, and even had a manuscript critique with two "real" writers: Dave King, author of the bestselling novel The Ha-Ha; and Tracy Daughtery, author of What Falls Away and Axeman's Jazz, among others. If you're interested, read on:

At the urging of my agent, I started work on an antebellum novel, set in the 1850s in Charleston, S.C., during the cotton boom of the period. It centers on an eighteen year-old girl named Josephine Scott, "Jo" to friends and family. Jo is a member of a wealthy, old Charlestonian family: her father's a cotton broker and her mother an heiress and socialite. She's got one older brother, Ben, who's a wayward Yale student and young-man-about-town. So far, other characters include Jo's grandfather, an old rabble rouser and veteran of the War of 1812; Jo's uncle, Boone, an Indian agent with the Comanches in Texas, who's back in Charleston for mysterious reasons; Mary Manigault, Jo's childhood friend; Sullivan Calhoun, a nephew of John C.'s, best friend of Ben's and a romantic interest for Jo; and several other members of Charleston society, both black and white. Jo and her family are actually descendents of Quinn and Jack Wolf, the protagonists of my first novel.

Like I said, the chapters I've written are very rough. I'm definitely still in the beginning stages. The research has been a blast, and very easy--much different than research for my first novel, set almost 100 years earlier. I'm a little skeptical that the world needs another Civil War era novel, but my agent thinks differently: he says Civil War fiction never goes out of style. So we'll see.

So far, no luck with publishers on my first novel. My agent is now in California for a few months, and before he left to go there he breakfasted and lunched with editors, passing the manuscript to them. I figure we should be hearing from that round of submissions in a few months. The entire process is daunting, tedious, and lacking any good odds, but such is life.

As promised, attached are photos from my last days at the Vermont Studio Center, including a few of us playing in the snow. Good times were had by all.

I'm Leavin' On a Jet Plane

2008-02-28T10:23:00.008-05:00

Today is my last day in the village of Johnson, Vermont, at the Vermont Studio Center. It is an incredibly sunny morning, the sky a shade a blue I'm not sure I've ever seen before. It's only 10 degrees, so bitterly cold it hurts my face to walk outside!

That being said, I've organized a Snow Play Date for some of the folks here. These Yankees need to play in the snow and watch a Southerner make a fool of herself. :) I'm pretty sure that I've successfully fought my cold and cough, and do not (as Callie said on a phone call earlier this week) sound like Darth Vader any more. A group of us are meeting to go to a park nearby to hopefully play some snow football this afternoon. Afterwards, we're going to drink hot chocolate or coffee with Bailey's in it. Now, whether I pull this off or not remains to be seen--folks are spending the day packing up and may not want to take a break--but I'm hoping it'll be fun. I'll try and post some pictures of it after I get home.

I leave Johnson tomorrow morning at 5:00 a.m. My plane leaves from the Burlington airport at 7:00 a.m., goes to La Guardia, and I should be in Charlotte by 12:30 p.m.-ish. I CAN'T WAIT to see my husband.

It's been an eye-opening four weeks. The interaction with Visiting Writers, the conversations with my peers, the connections with other writers and visual artists, the community formed here--all such a joy to be part of. These are unbelieveably talented folks, good people who look at the world in ways, and through a myriad of lenses, I'd never imagined.

This month, in many ways, has been a gift. I feel my craft is stengthened, my outlook bright. I hope I can hold on to the things I've learned. I think I can.

Despite all this, I am ready to be home and with my family. We are all still heartbroken (probably always will be), but we're healing. Thank you all so very much for your emails, your prayers and good thoughts.

Photos: Burlington, Vermont and Lake Champlain

Hunter

2008-02-26T13:10:00.004-05:00

On Thursday, Feb. 21, my cousin Hunter exited this world for another. I loved him very much, and treasure the time I got to spend with him.

Funeral services were held yesterday in Columbia, S.C., with a burial in Sardinia, S.C. My entire family was there. I was stuck in Vermont due to snow storms and illness, but I was there in spirit. Hunter was a special young man, and he'll be sorely missed. My family is rallying strong, and your thoughts and prayers are always needed and appreciated.

I took a walk in the hills near the town of Johnson yesterday, when I knew the funeral services were being held. I took some photos of the countryside and thought of Hunter. Enjoy.

Magic Under the Moon

2008-02-21T11:29:00.005-05:00

Last night was a full moon lunar eclipse, so I hope y'all got to see it! It was gorgeous, and won't happen again until 2010.

Here at the VSC, folks built a huge bonfire and we all gathered to wish one of the staff members a happy birthday and to hang out under the moon. Good times were had by all. And I was extremely impressed by the huge bonfire built entirely on snow!

Tomorrow, my Mom, my Aunt Jean-Marie, and my cousin Lindsay fly into Burlington to spend the weekend here. We're staying at Nye's Family B&B, and I'm thrilled. Though it's in the teens, temperature-wise, today, here's hoping we get "balmy" Vermont weather this weekend... maybe in the 30s! We're going to do some exploring and sight-seeing, probably head into Stowe and visit the Trapp Family Lodge, of The Sound of Music fame.

I can't wait to see my family!

Enjoy the photos! There are some from a walk a friend and I took yesterday in the frigid cold, a couple of the eclipse, and also some from the bonfire.

Sleigh Riding, Ice Skating & Snowshoeing, Oh My!

2008-02-16T17:49:00.005-05:00

What a glorious day! The Village of Johnson Winter Festival was today, and so I went to my studio early this morning to write, then after lunch joined the fun. There was a sleigh ride through the forest and along the Gihon River (a REAL sleigh--no wheels), ice skating near the elementary school, then snowshoeing up on the Prindle Property: a gorgeous piece of land (24 acres)in the hills near the village. I got to hang out with two great dogs: Cody, a black lab, who was one of the wrangler's dogs; and Philomena, a yellow lab mix who went on the snowshoeing trek with us and leapt through the more than three feet of snow with pure joy. To top it off, I had a cup of coffee at the cafe with a new friend before heading back to my studio to write before dinner.

Enjoy the photos!

Photos include: Inside of Kowalsky House (my residence for the month); looking at ALL our wine choices; sunset view from my bedroom window; sleigh ride, draft horses and Percherons; ice skating; and snowshoeing, roadside views, horses and barns.

P.S. I finally wore my thermal underwear for the first time today, and boy did I need it!