TOOTING MY OWN HORN!

A week ago I received boxes full of my book, Soldiers From the Mist.  I am quickly learning that writing the novel was the easy part.  Now, the real work begins:  promoting and selling. 

I’m proud to say, that I have sold over half of the first batch.  My books have flown through the universe to as far away as New York and as nearby as Oklahoma.  Not bad.   I’ve talked to local bookstores and merchants and am lining up book signings.  (see the events page).  There are conferences on the horizon as well.  

The reviews have been great.

Cheryl’s enthusiasm matched mine.  “I am so impressed!  The characters are so real.  You’re another James Patterson or Nora Roberts.”

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From Linda:  “Great read.  I want more.  What happens to the Lieutenant’s family?  To Emmie’s mother?  What is Henrietta’s  story?”   (Music to my ears.  Always leave them wanting more.)

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Lanita said, “I love it!  Can hardly put it down.  Makes you feel like you’re right there with the person. Please tell me you have another one in progress.
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Tom wrote: “Nice twist that’s different and surprising.”

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 Marge's comment was: "It engaged my emotions from the beginning, sometimes so much I'd
have to put the book down."
       
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But my all time favorite (for now) came from fellow author and friend, Big Foot Pam:  “You bitch!  I was up all night reading.  Girl you can write!  Awesome read.”

Keep those cards and letters coming in, folks!   AND ORDERS!

GO TO PRESS!!!

Last week I uttered the three most beautiful words a writer can say to his publisher:  “Go to Press!”

All the years in the making, sweating over point-of-view, internalization, and sense of place.  Hours of time pouring over each page, fine-tuning the words.  Entire nights and weekends spent with my butt in the chair.  No TV.  No American Idol.  No washing dishes or making beds.  Just me and my computer.   

Nerves dancing when pitching the manuscript to New York editors who smile with their lips but not their eyes.  Months spent waiting for notification.  Then the crushing rejection letter.  “Loved your voice.  Great story.  Fantastic characters.  Couldn’t put the book down.  But . . . no deal." 

At last finding the publisher that is right.  The gallies (the first printing of the book) arrives in the mail.  Screams, laughter, wine, (lots of wine) and dancing barefoot around the house, hugging the pages to your heart.  This is it!  It’s going to happen.  Me!  I wrote a book.  It’s being published! 

Days of more proof-reading, getting the font just right, choosing the right cover, more proof-reading, more edits, more proof-reading. 

Then, it happens.   No more proofing, no more edits, no more cover designs.  It is time.  A deep breath.  Just say it!  Only three words.  Three little words powerful enough to change my destiny, uttered with so much emotion my voice cracks.

“Go to Press!”

Now, the waiting begins again for those five little words:

“And the Oscar goes to . . ..”

WHEN WILL THEY EVER LEARN?

This year marks the 150^th anniversary of the Civil War. 

Webster defines civil as:  “of a community of citizens, their government, or their interrelations as: civil affairs/ polite; civilized; refraining from rudeness.”  How ironic that one of the most violent wars in the history of the United States used a word whose synonym means the exact opposite.     

The first thing that pops into people’s minds when they discuss the Civil War is slavery.  Again, how ironic.  No incident related to slavery caused the outbreak of fighting.  Nor did the secession of Southern states from the Union.  In fact, Jefferson Davis (the Confederate President) vowed, “We propose no invasion of the North, no attack on them, and only ask to left alone.”

What went wrong?

In my novel, Soldiers from the Mist, Charlie’s mother, Clara said, “Slavery is a handy excuse to rile up young men’s emotions; a way to justify the killing.” The troubled Confederate Lieutenant in the story, Peter Montgomery, Jr., said “the excuses for war are many but can be boiled down to only four:  hate, fear, jealously, and greed.”  In a violent argument with his father, Peter called the southern gentlemen clamoring for war, foolish. That the “North was a sleeping dog that didn’t care about the South and its one-horse economy and backwoods politics.  But that wasn’t good enough for the South and they continued to poke the dog with sticks of greed and power until the beast woke and turned into a rabid, spitting animal ready to devour every good thing the South stands for."

Unfortunately, even today, 150 years later, the Civil War conjures up strong emotions in the South.  The saying, “The South will rise again,” is often heard at rallies and protests.  The Confederate flag evolved into a symbol of hatred and bigotry.   

 My friends, who lived in California, have little knowledge of the war and don’t understand what the ruckus is all about.  Who were the Yankees?  Where the Rebels the ones dressed in gray?  What is the Mason/Dixon line anyway?

I am proud to be from the south and call myself a rebel even though I did marry a blue-nosed Boston Yankee.  And, yes, I do have the Stars and Bars in my house, however I don’t display it in public. I enjoy the freindly rivalry between the Yankees and the Rebels.   

BUT: 

I am not a racist.  I don’t hate the North. 

I am first, foremost and always, an American.

In doing research for my book, I found it interesting that we still struggle today with the same issues as 150 years ago: alcoholism, mental/verbal/physical abuse, dysfunctional families, women’s rights, depression, and man’s inhumanity to man.  It begs the question, “have we really evolved?”

Mothers still stand in the streets and watch their babies march off to war.  The young men and women continue to go in order to prove themselves not realizing until too late that violence never solved anything.

My character, Specks, asked the million dollar question, “Wonder what would happen if everyone refused to fight?”  Charlie had the million dollar answer:  peace.

Peter Montgomery used the myth of the Phoenix to justify the War Between the States.  It was his hope that out of all the death and destruction, a better world would emerge.  On this, the 150^th anniversary of one of the most destructive wars ever fought, we should pause and ask ourselves, “Is the world a better place?”

Peter, Paul, and Mary’s song, Where have all the flowers Gone? sums it up with five short words:

“When will they ever learn?”

THE TRUTH IS OUT THERE

I can’t speak for everyone, but I am sick of all the snow and sub-zero temperatures.  This is Arkansas, for Pete’s sake, not Canada.  I crave the warmth of the sun, even did a sun dance, but spells are tricky and I forgot to say, “I want the sun without the snow.” 

In an attempt to bring on the warmth of summer, I searched for pictures of the beach, sultry nights on the front porch, and the 4^th of July.  During my hunt for the sun, I happened across my scrapbook of my trip to Roswell, New Mexico.  Now, we’re talkin’!   What better way to warm up than a trip to the desert complete with ET?

Welcome to Roswell!

In the summer of 2005 I went to Roswell, New Mexico for their annual UFO convention. What an experience! 

Roswell is a little town that doesn’t have too much going it for it, except for Extraterrestrials.  That’s all it needs.  The whole town gets into the spirit.  Even the local WalMart.  Not only are there pictures of aliens on the walls, but the greeters and check-out associates are small and curious looking as well.  Martians in Wally Word?   Believe it!  Aliens are everywhere:  storefronts, street lights, Coke machines, beautiful murals, and people on the street.   

At the convention I was introduced to Darrell Sims, the Alien Hunter.  Darrell is a charming, charismatic man whose life purpose is to track down aliens.  Which begs the question, “What are you going to do when you catch one?” 

I attended seminars on government cover-ups and conspiracies.  Men in Black?  Yes sir!  

I learned that they are many species of aliens:  Grays, reptile, and ones that look like a praying mantis. (hate those)  And just like we humans, some aliens are good and some are bad.  Some wish to help mankind while others don’t. 

My dad saw three UFO’s while working outside.  I’ve never seen a space ship, however.  

 Do I believe in extraterrestrials?   Yes. 

Have I been “beamed-up?”  Don’t know and don’t want to find out.

Do I think others have been abducted?  Yes.  

Is the Government involved?  Hell, yes!

Should we fear them?   Fear is non-productive.  Be cautious.
Do aliens have superior intelligence?  They’ve been around longer than the human race; therefore, it stands to reason they know more than us. 

Would I like the have a close encounter?  NO!

Do they walk among us?   Yes!

The Truth is out there.  But for my part, it can stay out . . . way out!

TO THE COMPLAINT DEPARTMENT

Dear, Old Man Winter:

           You are pissing me off! 

           I can put up with cold.  I can deal with darkness falling at 6:00 at night.   I can even handle the gray, gloomy countryside with naked trees shivering in the wind.  But this snow and ice is bull.    

I’ve tried to understand.   Maybe you don’t know that not only can’t I skate on ice, I can’t drive on it either.  That trash bags belong in the dumpster and not stacked up in my utility room.  Water pipes freeze and bust at below zero.  Gas and electric heat costs money.  That the all-mighty buck rules the human world therefore we are expected to be at work even if hell freezes over which, by the way, is pretty close to happening.

What’s the deal?  Are you feeling depressed, irritable, mis-understood?  Lonely?  Is that why you’re acting out and dumping your wrath on us?   Hmm . . . my heart bleeds for you.  Take a chill pill. Get over it.   Shit happens.

I think it’s only fair to warn you, I’ve had it and am calling in the big dogs.  I am doing a sun dance today.  If you don’t want to be hurt, get out-of-town.  Go North.  To Alaska.  Eskimos like snow and ice.  They build homes out of it.  You’ll be welcomed there.

Let the sun shine in!   Beaches.  Sun.  Mango margaritas.

Sincerely,

Summer chic in Arkansas

MEXICO OR BUST

The other day I was talking to my twin brother telling him how sometimes I rack my brain for interesting blog entries.  He suggested writing about our trip to Mexico.  That got me to thinking about things he and I did as kids that drove Mama crazy.  So, like WTCF (What-the-cat fur), every once in awhile I will share the childhood adventures of the Burkett Twins, Jimmy and Ruth.

Jim and I were famous from the get-go.  We were the first boy and girl twins born at the old Washington Regional Hospital in Fayetteville, Arkansas.  This was before the time of ultra-sounds and Mama had no idea she was having twins.  Neither did the doctor.  My oldest brother, Wes, was so excited he told everyone he was a double-uncle.

We were born six weeks early and weighed 3lbs, 11 oz..  We spent some time in an incubator before going home.  Mama and Daddy had to sell the cows to get us out of hock.  Grandma told everyone what a perfect gentleman Jim was to let me have the honor of coming into the world first.  Mama, on the other hand, didn’t share the same theory.  She maintained that Jim was tired of me by this time and kicked me out.  Personally, I think he was scared to pop out first so he sent me to check things out. 

Grandma





Needless to say, Mama had her hands full taking care of twins.  What one couldn’t think of, the other would.  The trip to Mexico however was a joint effort.



Jim & Ruth



Being a twin meant you always had a playmate and a partner in crime.  We were fortunate growing up as we had a large back yard with big trees complete with rope swings, a creek, and a weed-patch behind us.  Mama didn’t allow us to go into the weed-patch because of copperheads.  Of course since it was forbidden territory, the weed-patch became our Bali Ha’i that called and tempted us with its mysterious charms.

On a crisp fall day while Jim and I were playing in the backyard, a rustling came from the weed-patch.  Eyes wide, we waited for a lion or tiger to step out.  But instead of a wild animal a stranger walked out of the weeds.  Quite sure this guy was a world-wide traveler we asked him where he had been and where he was going.  He told us Mexico.

Jim and I looked at one another and the same thought popped into our heads—let’s go to Mexico!

Not only were Jim and I lucky to have a large back yard to play in, but we had our own real-life guardian angel as well.  Our dog, George, was a spotted angel with a long straight tail and four paws who protected us at all times.  Naturally when we took off through the weed-patch, George walked by our side.

George

Our excitement built.  What would Mexico be like?  How long would it take us to get there?

Unknown to us, Mama’s excitement was growing by leaps and bounds as well. Her kids had disappeared from the back yard!  Where were they?  She yelled our names over and over but we never heard.  After all, we were half way to Mexico by this time.  But God heard her frantic cries and answered them.  She caught sight of George’s stick tail bobbing through the weeds along with the tops of our bright colored stocking caps.

Alas, we never made it to the border.

I think Mama switched us.

I know she asked what the hell we thought we were doing.

Quite innocent, we told her we were going to Mexico.

I think this stunt, along with others, was why Mama dyed her hair to hide the gray.

Jim and I never made it to the Land of Enchantment.  We have no desire to go there now.  However, The Land of the Midnight Sun is calling . . . "come to me, come to me."

George will have to go with us in spirit.  



Then




Now





In memory of Sissy

Last Thursday I had to put my cat to sleep. 

It sucked!

Sissy had been with me for over twelve years.  She wasn’t only my companion, but Pan Cat’s buddy as well. 

Pan is black as midnight, mysterious, with a hint of wildness, my muse, my familiar, my witch cat.  Sissy, on the other hand, was reserved, quiet, and shy.  In fact, friends thought she was a figment of my imagination as she would run and hide the minute they came to the door and not reappear until they left. 

At all times, Sissy was the perfect Southern belle, a lady, a diva.

Every morning she helped me get ready for work.  Sitting on my bathroom vanity she would stick her head into my makeup bag making sure I remembered the mascara.  After applying blush, I would make a few quick brush strokes to her cheeks and nose as well.  Dusty Rose was her favorite. 

Sissy loved bling.  I’d find jewelry in strange places—rings under the bathroom rug, earrings in the bed.  My jewelry box was a playground of delight and I’d often catch her pawing at the bobbles as if trying to decide what to wear that day.

Even though always the lady, Sissy did have a wild side.  After all, she was a cat.  She’d pin her little ears back, race through the house, and tackle anything that moved.  Quite the mouser, that little gray diva cat. 

Then, one day, without warning, she got sick.

I made a deal with her—as long as she ate and drank and wasn’t in pain, I would take care of her.  But the minute that all changed, I would put her down.  For two months she honored that agreement, but last Wednesday she crashed and burned.  She hurt.  Tore my heart from my chest.  Thru the night I held her, brushed her, and sang lullaby’s in her ear.  Anything to soothe her and let her sleep.  Tears running down my face, I told her how much I loved her, how beautiful she was, and what a honor it was to be her mama.  I would always remember her.

Then, I told her I was going to put her down, but not to be afraid.  I would be there to hold her hand.  My brother would be waiting on the other side to take care of her. 

She understood. 

So, in the ice and snow I drove Sissy to the vet, stood bravely by her side, kissed and hugged her, and said my last goodbye. 

She’s feeling much better now.

Some people claim animals don’t have souls.  I have one word for them—bullshit! 

Pets are God’s unconditional love and acceptance wrapped in fur with tails and four paws—or feathers, or fins. It is ridiculous to think HE would give his ultimate gift of love to mankind and not give them souls.


Others say that our pets resemble us.  Maybe it’s the other way around.  I have Pan’s wild, witchy side, but I also have Sissy’s reserved, shy side as well.  Who knows?

All I know for certain is the world would suck without the Sissy cats!

Rest in peace, my little diva.