A Good Story

I was beginning to think there was something wrong with me. I joined a book club a little over a year ago and had found myself skimming so many of the books that we were reading. Then the other day I got my good friend, River Jordan’s new book Saints in Limbo in the mail for an endorsement. I opened up the pages and began to realize that it wasn’t me! I just hadn’t read a good story in a while. Every word captivated me. I didn’t want to miss one of them. Because each one held in it an emotion, an experience, a story.

A couple weeks after that I got another advance copy in the mail by another one of my good friends Nicole Seitz, her new book, One Hundred Years of Happiness. Once again, I didn’t miss a word. I just put the final touches on my endorsement for another friend, Rene Gutteridge’s new book, Never the Bride. And once again I read every word.

Granted they are all my friends, but trust me, I don’t read every word even of some of my best friends books. And the other beautiful thing is that these books were all very different stylistically. From Literary Fiction, like Rivers, to contemporary Southern Fiction, like Nicole, to chicklit like Renee’s. But it was the power of the story that was captivating. The ability to take me, the reader, to a place worth going and touching my emotions along the way.

From the time I was little I loved the power of a story. The ability to take people to places they’ve never been, places they’re hearts long to go, and teach them things their hearts are hungry for. My first book offering wasn’t fiction. It was non-fiction. I wanted to write books that changed people’s lives. But no publisher wanted to publish it. No, it was the first fiction book that I had ever written about a rigged beauty pageant, where women taped their boobs and sprayed their butts. That was going to be my offering to the literary world. It was a bitter-sweet moment for me. I wanted to write books that challenged people’s lives, touched their hearts and reached them in their deep places.

I’ve realized over the years that fiction can do the same thing. As I mopped up tears after reading each one of my friend’s stories and as I belly laughed until the bed shook, I realized the real power and privilege we as story-tellers have. Some take advantage of that. Others, well…there are others. People walk into a bookstore and are about to give us as authors two of their most priceless commodities. And two commodities that once spent can never be retrieved, their money and their time. May we be good stewards of both. And good stewards of the stories that lie in the soul of each of us…


Denise makes her home in Franklin, Tennessee with Sophie and Maggie, where they take long walks and read good books. She enjoys coca-cola and every now and then writes a few books.

www.denisehildreth.com
www.denisehildreth.blogspot.com
www.denisehildreth.typepad.com "Flying Solo" A blog for singles

Guest Blogger: Sybil Baker

On Travel and the Writing Life

Whether from nature, nurture, or a combination of both, I was probably destined to travel. My father grew up during the Depression watching the planes fly overhead as he picked cotton on the family farm in Arkansas, wondering where those planes went. At 17, he joined the Navy, sailed to the Far East, and never looked back.

And, as soon as she got her degree from Appalachian State University, my mom loaded up her car and drove to Florida to accept a teaching job—much to the shock of the small North Carolina community she’d been raised in. When we were growing up, my dad managed to save at least one or two weeks of his vacation time so our family could travel up and down the East coast in our pop-up camper. So it’s no surprise that I enjoy traveling to new places.

Still, when I moved to South Korea to teach abroad for a year at the age of thirty one, no one, especially me, knew that one year would turn into twelve. I stayed for many reasons; I loved my job teaching at Korean university, the pay and time off was plentiful—but even more than that, I became addicted to travel, which I did for months on end.

Now that I live in less exotic (but just as interesting) Chattanooga, Tennessee, I still love to travel, not because it’s fun (which it often is) or that it expands my horizons (which it does), but because I believe traveling makes me a better writer.

I’m not alone in this thought. Travel across the country, from city to country, to Europe or even farther has been considered a rite (or should I say “write”) of passage for many writers such as Hemingway, Faulkner, Baldwin, and Cheever. These days, bestselling memoirs like Eat, Pray, Love use travel as journey for self-discovery. The best thing travel does for me and my writing is to broaden my sense of the world and its possibilities. Even if I never write a short story or novel about my three weeks in Mongolia, for example, I’m sure my memories of staying in a yurt, the enduring the pervasive smell of mutton, and feeling the sand of the Gobi desert in my hands have indelibly affected the way I see the world and write about it.

Because of my love of Thailand, I decided to center much of my debut novel, The Life Plan, in that country. Unlike me, Kat, the main character, doesn’t want to travel—especially to a third world country—and her comfort zones are expanded more than she would like. By the end of the novel, though, Kat has a new appreciation for other cultures and lifestyles. Whether my stories take place in the American south or in other countries, my characters are challenged and shaped by the place they live.

For writers, I believe travel can be a great way to get inspiration or give you a new perspective on a character or scene. Of course, many writers don’t have the time or money to travel like I have, so I want to expand the definition of “travel.” Travel can mean going to a new street or store in your own town or just getting in the car and driving, seeing where you’ll end up. For example, one night I may go to our city’s most exclusive private club where I’ll listen to rich old men drink and lament the world that is leaving them behind, and the next night I’ll go to the all- black soul club near my house and dance the night away. Or I’ll go to a restaurant in the small Hispanic area a few blocks from my house and order food off the Spanish-only menu.

Another type of travel is from health to illness. My father died of cancer a few years ago and one of my closest friends, still in her thirties, has stage four breast cancer. While I’ve been fortunate enjoy a life of good health, the journey I’ve witnessed others take has definitely affected how I see the world and how I write about it.

Travel is a state of mind that allows you expand your comfort zones, which in turn allows you to add depth and compassion to your writing. If you have writers block or feel that you need inspiration, I encourage you to step out of your comfort zone and travel—whether it is to a hospital, a church, a mosque, a homeless shelter, the forest, the middle of downtown, or even just a street away from where you’re reading this now. Go on, take a step, take a breath, see something new, then return to your work with fresh insight and a new perspective.

The allure and alienation of American travelers and expatriates have heavily influenced Sybil Baker’s writing, including her debut novel The Life Plan. A fast-paced romp through exotic Thailand, The Life Plan has been called a “screwball comedy for the 21st century” and “the most original, no-holds-barred, well-informed and readable traveler’s guide to Thailand.” Her stories and essays have appeared in numerous journals and anthologies including upstreet, Alehouse, A Woman’s World Again (Traveler’s Tales), and The Writers’ Chronicle. She is currently a creative writing professor at the University of Tennessee at Chattanooga. For more information visit http://www.sybilbaker.com or her blog at http://sybilbaker.blogspot.com. You can see the book trailer for The Life Plan at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-RVu8VbHEbY&fmt=18.

From the Front Porch

I’m off to the SC Book Festival where I hope to see lots of fellow bloggers. Scott Turow is the keynote speaker, and I have a little story about him. A while back I was one of the featured authors at a book festival (which shall go unnamed). This particular festival required authors to sit for six hours in a signing area as potential book buyers filed through.

At the opening reception, all the authors were buzzing about the long signing time and I, knowing Scott Turow was in attendance, said, “Do you think someone as famous as Scott Turow is going to sit around for six hours? No frigging way.”

I said this very loudly (Blame the wine!) while a fellow author tried to signal me with frantic eye gymnastics.

Well… turned out Mr. Turow was standing behind me and heard every word I said.

Blush.

And yes, he did sit for six hours just like the rest of us.

On another note, I’ve mentioned this novel once before but now I’ve finally read it and while we I don’t generally review books here, I had to make an exception for The Help.

Here’s my take:

“I’m always a little sad when I finish a truly one-of-a-kind, outstanding book. First I hate to leave behind the world the author has created. Second, I know that it will probably be a very long while before I read another book that is even half good as the one I’ve just finished.That’s how I felt after reading The Help by Kathryn Stockett, a novel set in the early sixties in Jackson, Mississppi about the relationship between white women and their black maids. I want to thank Ms. Stockett for creating such vivid, endearing character-characters I will never forget--and for putting them in situations that kept me eagerly turning the pages.As I read, I felt a rare whoosh of realization that I was reading a novel destined to be a classic and to take its proud place with Secret Life of Bees and To Kill A Mockingbird. If you read only one novel this year, let it be this one.”

Kathyrn will be at the festival, and I’m definitely getting a signed book.

Lit Links

Can a woman write the great American novel?

One way to plot a novel.

Creating sympathetic characters.

Take that Michiko. Norman Mailer spouts off.

A Warm, Interesting Place

by Cathy Pickens.

In the midst of continuing bad economic news, I’ve seen glimmers of good news. Last week in Hilton Head, record numbers of readers turned out to raise funds to support literacy efforts. Today in Columbia, the South Carolina Book Festival opens, with readers gathering in Columbia to hear writers from around the country talk about their favorite topic – books. What could be more fun than that?

Books are a perennial bright spot. I’ve lately found myself reading even more than usual. Because the weather has been cold and I want to nestle into a cocoon? Because who can bear to watch TV when the newsbreaks are naught but bad news?

Whatever the reason, I’ve been devouring books. And the reading has been good. I stayed up late last night to finish The Mystery of Edwin Drood. I wanted to pack Dan Simmons’ new book Drood for this weekend’s trip to the Festival.

Last weekend, I finished Michael Gruber’s The Book of Air and Shadows. Wow! It reminded me of hearing mystery writer Martha Grimes talk about lying in bed as she finished one of Dennis Lehane’s books. She closed the book and said to herself, “Well, Martha. You didn’t write that book. You might as well just die.”

I wasn’t ready to die at the end of Air and Shadows, but I did sit amazed at how he’d put together such an amazing, literate page-turner.

How else can you travel to a rainy wood in England or meet a quirky Polish family in Queens, all while curled up in front of a fire?

If you have the wherewithal, buy a book. Give books as gifts. Treat yourself to a new author or an old favorite. Books are remarkable bargains. Remember bookstores, writers, and even libraries need your patronage. So they can keep writing and offering books, so we can keep going to interesting places.

No need to wait for "beach book" season. Share your favorite reads with friends and family. Join a book club, if you haven’t already. Go listen to writers and readers talk about books at some place like the SC Book Festival. Best of all, just enjoy!

New book news: Can’t Never Tell, the 5th Southern Fried mystery, is now available. The carnival comes to town for the 4th of July, bringing a mysterious mummy.

Writing Better than Doing / Book Festival

Sometimes Writing is Better than Doing...

(and check out the SC Book Festival)

by T. Lynn Ocean

If you're a writer, you spend lots of time sitting on your butt. Your brain might be in overdrive and your alter ego might be swinging from a bedpost during a hot and steamy sex scene. But your body is dutifully positioned in front of the monitor, fingers making music on their familiar alphabetic keyboard.

Which is why it's so important to get active. Which is why, after opening a second written notice from the neighborhood appearance board about my newly installed fence—they wanted it to be white—I decided to get off my butt and paint the thing. The nice man at Lowes told me exactly which product to use and how much of it I needed. A friend let me borrow their electric sprayer. How hard could it be?

Well, lemmie tell you. Hard. Really hard. Imagine doing deep knee squats, then stretching your hands above your shoulders, for five hours straight, all the while holding a twenty-five pound weight with a trigger. Oh, yeah. A really LOUD twenty-five pound weight. After half an hour, my ears were ringing. I stopped to make a trip to the local drugstore for earplugs. Seeing me, the clerk did a double take and frowned as she took my money. Her reaction made sense when, back in my car, I caught a reflection of my face in the rearview. Both nostrils were coated with a fine white powder. I immediately headed back inside for a face mask, too.

Two hours later, grunting and sweat-soaked despite the chilly air, I met one of my neighbors for the first time. Apparently she'd walked over to investigate the noise. I suppose my latex gloves, earplugs, headband, and face mask made me look more like a crazed surgeon than a painter but I didn't much care. Whatever. My thigh muscles burned and my arms were rubber.

"No speak English," I said, figuring she wouldn't recognize me later anyway. No need to be sociable. I had a fence to paint. A six-foot high privacy fence that seemed to be growing taller and longer by the minute.

I kept the trigger engaged, the air powered sprayer doing its thing, and muttered something that may or may not have sounded like Spanish. Finally, she went away. It wasn't long before another neighbor ventured over and he didn't leave until I accidentally sprayed his shoes. My mood had soured. I wanted to go back to the charming Lowes paint man and tell him where he could put the five-gallon bucket of gloppy stain. I wanted to tell the homeowner's community appearance board where they could put their pissy-grams. But mostly, I wanted to finish what I'd come to do. Refill the tank. Move the tarps. Spray. Tell my complaining muscles that it was only a stupid fence and it wasn't going to kick my ass. Spray some more. Catch my breath. Refill the tank. Move the tarps… you get the idea.

I managed to finish the fence before dusk set in, and did a pretty darn good job of it. Since I had trouble walking for the next few days (seriously) it was a perfect time to plop my butt back in front of the computer screen. Bottom line? I'd much rather write about painting a freakin' fence than actually ever doing it again!

On a separate note, I'm thrilled to be attending the annual SC Book Festival in Columbia this weekend. For details, visit their website at http://www.scbookfestival.org. If you're anywhere near Columbia, this is a must do. More than 80 authors, panels, seminars, and special events. If you go, look me up! I'll be the one who has a FAB French manicure. Well, actually it's the white stain beneath my nail tips that won't wash off… but hey. At least I got the stuff out of my nose.

P.S. I just found this old photo of my sisters and cousins. Can you guess which is me?

Cheers, T. Lynn

http://www.tlynnocean.com

Let Jessica Have Her Cake by Susan Reinhardt

Bravo to Jessica Simpson for finally doing something substantial. Seems she’s having her cake and eating it, too.
All the magazines and newspapers that enjoy splashing stars’ bods on the covers had a fit over her new zaftig figure. To me, her more curvy shape is how a woman should appear.
The photos show her in jeans – albeit those not so flattering “mommy” jeans – looking if she’s shunned the typical Hollywood diet of coffee and colonics. Good for her.
If other models and stars packed a few pounds on their skeletal frames, the rate of anorexia among young teens might show a downward curve.
Too many young girls, even those in elementary school, talk about going on diets and losing weight. It’s frightening and can be partially corrected if the media would applaud celebrities who are a size 6 to 8 instead the usual boneyard parade of zeroes and 2’s.
Personally, I think we writers are the best size. Who doesn’t love to rip open a bag of Cape Cod potato chips while the muse tries her best to strike?
My favorite Prose Muse is peanut M&M’s. I just seem to write gooder when I eat them.
I’m also now a size 10 due to my Muse losing her job to corporate cutbacks. She’s pissed she has no insurance and her 401-K drained itself emptier than her cupboards. I just don’t have the money to pay her. My agent is having trouble selling my new novel. Maybe it sucks. Maybe I suck and should get a job teaching exercise at Curves.
Maybe I’ll just go to the grocery store and get some 90 percent off Valentine’s candy and tell Cupid to strike instead.
Back to Jessica, who seems to lack a bit of gray matter. While she’s never been someone I admire, but at least she’s defending her new shape. She says she’s happy. Happy people generally eat. Writers with fat advances eat well.
When the tabloids hit the grocery stores last week, many in the media rose up in waddling arms over her new and much fuller figure.
I guess people want their celebrities to look like breasts tottering on two sticks. No fat, no muscle. Just give the public their stars in a cadaverous form and all is well.
Take the latest issue of “Sports Illustrated,” the famous swimsuit section. Each February the slick skin sheet seems to get more daring in its baring.
I remember when my Daddy subscribed to SI. As a young girl, I’d scan that famous yearly swimsuit issue and think it quite scandalous.
This year’s “Sports Illustrated” cover featured a model in what is described as a string bikini, but all I saw was string. The muckety-mucks at the magazine bragged about what a curvy model they’d chosen. The only noticeable curves were a couple of hefty dollops of silicone.
As for Jessica and her new weight, the same ugly chatter arose when Britney Spear’s body wasn’t buff as a waxed car.
Give these gals a break. Many have given birth and the pressure to restore a pre-baby body is as intense as going all out to win an Olympic gold.
If Jessica gains a few, people say she’s fat. If she or another star loses a few, all the chatter is about anorexia.
At least when the tabloids posted her Jessica’s fuller figure, other celebs rushed to her defense, including singers LeAnn Rimes and former “American Idol” contestant, Kellie Pickler.
The gossipy show “Entertainment Tonight,” filmed them blasting the criticisms of Jess’s new body.
“She looks awesome,” Kellie Pickler, who loves the word “awesome,” said. “She’s stunning. She is so tiny.”
As for LeAnn Rimes, she’s weathered her share of harsh words regarding her weight.
“You know how many unflattering photos we’ve all taken?” she said. “You can have an armpit stain and people don’t understand it’s a million degrees outside.”
In the media’s eyes, “You’re never going to be perfect,” she said.
It’s long overdue we celebrate the fuller figures. That is if we want our children to grow up with healthy role models.
It’s also long overdue I had a truffle. Come back, Muse. I’ll buy you some Cape Cods!

A Freshly Unemployed Publishing Professional Listens To The New Springsteen Album

Axes fall. So do chips. So does the sky. The bottom? It drops like my stomach does when I use the word "unemployed" to refer to my status in the current socioeconomic climate. A friend on twitter (or a "twal" as they're referred to in the arcane infantile rebranding of babytalk portmanteaus that passes for a network-specific "language" on there)has informed me that I need to be more sensitive (let's say sensitiver) to the branding needs of all of us super-literate now-jobless folks awash on the dirty, jellyfish-laden shore of the book world. As such, at my friend's request, I am not "unemployed", I am "self-employed". Actually, in terms of putting a big, bright, ravey-yellow smiley face sticker over the stigma of being jobless, I by far prefer the term "under-employed".

At the moment, I am MOST DEFINITELY under-employed.

This is news that has "broken" (OMFG someone call Barbara Walters-wait, don't, actually, as I haven't the string cheese and Fiji water she requires)elsewhere and in more detail, so the links are here and here if you care to read that.

Shakes is shakes, though, unless you're Richard Blais and your shakes have foie gras in them. I am jobless and moving from Atlanta to New York at the end of March to find my way in the world.

Qualifiers in regards to the above paragraph: Jobless= Trying to scurry up freelance marketing and publicity projects under my "RussComm" name while I hunt for something full-time and constant. Preferably something with health insurance-you know, that mythical beast that allows an option for dealing with illness other than "die miserably and painfully".

Moving to NY=Yup.

My theory is that the math on the unemployment numbers work out as such: there are 100% more jobs I may or may not be qualified for in New York, which makes my odds double what they'd be if I remained in Atlanta. If my calculations are correct, then there are about 200% more jobs in NY RIGHT NOW. Those are damn near horserace odds. So I'm throwing my money down on the one named "uproot yr damnself". And thus I am.

I vacillate between a giddy free-falling hopefulness, like Fievel Mousekewitz moving to America, and a terrified and free-falling anxiety. However, lately, given my situation, a serious anger comes out whenever I listen to Bruce Springsteen.
And that's just weird.

I mean I tend towards angst by default, and this whole jobless thing has found me strangely complacent. But I never would've thought that it'd be my first and only real listen to Springsteen's new album, Working On A Dream that would see me super-over-entitled, Grandma-demanding-photos-at-the-wedding angry.

There is, apparently, something in me lately that snaps, sparks, really, at privilege. I feel awful, defeated, awfully defeated, trudging to the unemployment office and claiming what's rightfully mine, and I feel like a starving caged tiger shown raw, bloody meat when I listen to Springsteen's new songs of change, growth and renewal.

To these ears, they're empty platitudes entirely.

Mostly, because Springsteen plays as though he's a migrant steel worker, wiping work-sweat from his brow with his blue collar. In fact, I daresay I blame "working on a dream" for a lot of things. Other than its pervasive sense of 'we did it", a sentiment that makes my stomach queasy for reasons I won't get into, Working On A Dream gets a fat-ass wedge of my ire because, in a time when I, screw everyone else, I need something super-uplifting and inspirational, something to make me feel blindly, formlessly empowered, drunk on the feeling like a Human Resources rep at 4:59 PM on a Friday-sassy and ready to party-Springsteen, the American King of the Smart Arena Rock Anthem For The Working Class, has produced an album that's absolutely nothing but a letdown. To wit, I point to the single worst song he's ever written, which is on this album: "Queen Of The Supermarket".

Yeah. It's that bad.

Right now, more than ever, what's needed isn't a working-class hero, but an under-employed hero. Preferably in publishing. Again: this is just me, thinking solely of myself. Springsteen? Sorry, bud, you let me down this year. Hope is most certainly on the way, but not from you. These tales of "good things coming" ring as empty and hollow as the guy at the unemployment office leading the "work skills" class telling the room full of sighing, heaving, coughing folks that "the job market's never looked brighter!". Emphasis his, not mine.

If Working On A Dream proves to be anything, it's an insult to those of us who've followed the Springsteenian mythos to its inevitable conclusion: a giant brick wall of government checks and boxes upon boxes of unread ARCs. Oh, wait-again I'm just talking about me here.

On that note, consider this an open solicitation: publishers, publicists, authors, folks with great french fry recipes-if you need freelance marketing or publicity work, if you're looking for a publicist full-time, if you hear of a great job lead in NYC, if you're in New York and would like to treat a really awesome fellow to an espresso, a martini, or an espresso martini? Don't hesitate to email me at RussCommunications at gmail dot com. Next time we chat, I'll be in New York. Doing...something. Hoping, mostly. I hear it's on the way. It apparently shows up at the same time as my unemployment check. 

Russ Marshalek, formerly marketing and pr director for Wordsmiths Books in Decatur, really really needs a job in NYC like right now k thanks.