The Deep, Down, And Dirty South

Well, I went and did it. People asked me to and I said I would, and then with the hard push and shove of my cousin, dang if I didn't live up to. I compiled a selection of essays, reflections, and favorite postings to A Good Blog Is Hard To Find and wrapped it up between some covers to take to the Pulpwood Queens shindig in Jefferson, Tx. It just a few true tales and takes on growing up in the south coupled with old family pictures. Here it 'tis and if you are at the Girlfriend Getaway Weekend this weekend you can find a copy there.

Going through those old photo's with my cousin has been a hoot and an education. I mean - there it is in black and white and there is no denying any of it. My southern roots are right out there in the wide open. I am reading the back of some of them that tell the most amazing story and I'd call Momma and say - who wrote all this stuff? And she'd say, "Oh, that's your aunt Aggie. Should have been a librarian." Aunt Aggie wrote on the back. "Here is my brother. He always wore a hat and jacket year round and looked like this. He seemed to always be cold." Well, obviously he is kin to this Florida girl up here in Nashville in 10 degree weather freezing her rear off! Aggie's brother, some distant, cold but not forgotten Uncle of mine is standing in front of a sugar cane field and I must say - it looks sunny and sugar cane is in and my guess is it is Summer and he really does look rather toasty in the hat and jacket.

Or just one shot of this man (who I really think was my grandaddy) says more than many of my words could muster. Looks hot. Looks like cotton. Looks so dusty and dry I can't swallow. And it explains why when my sister stopped to pick a few stalks of cotton to bring home to my mom because she thought it was so pretty and would make a nice little present (like a bouquet of flowers) she found that cotton thrown down outside behind the house. "Do you know how hot and dry it is out in the field picking cotton? Do you know how many hours and years I spend out there in that sun? I'd be happy if I never saw any cotton again for the rest of my life." All righty then. Make note. Momma doesn't want any cotton. Prefers flowers.

Or this one - check it out. That's me sporting the overalls look with with one shoe off and one shoe on but when I asked Momma who the people were holding me she told me, "Honey, I don't remember their names. They were just some people down on their luck that needed a place to stay till they could get back on their feet and find a place to live." Really? Just needed a place and they moved into our little house with not much room and shared with us and we didn't have all that much and you didn't even know them?

That's what I call The Deep, Down, & Dirty South. Where people would open a door, set another plate on the table, share what was in their field or in their pocket. Its where we come from - and I hope it's where we're going. In this day and age when we have so much more, bigger houses, belly's pretty darn full and pockets wide - I hope that the changes in our society, the dangers that we truely face and the changing face of our nation - doesn't cause us to change from the principles my mother so well set as a standard. And she wasn't the only one. There was a long, strong line of people working hard with their hands and yet, with the softest of hearts, putting food on the table and willing to share.

For anyone who might want a copy of The Deep, Down, and Dirty South - there might be a few copies available for personalization through my website next week at And don't forget that Saints In Limbo surfaces May 19th, and can be preordered now, in all its backwoods, southern glory set right smack down on my Daddy's creek and in the house he grew up in. My stories? Fiction or fact - they come from my people. And I'm proud to be a Southern Girl - oh, yes I am.

River Jordan is storyteller of the southern variety and has been cast most frequently in the company of Flannery O'Connor and Harper Lee. Jordan's writing career began as a playwright where she spent over ten years with the Loblolly Theatre group and received productions of her original works for the stage including Mama Jewels: Tales from Mullet Creek; Soul, Rhythm and Blues; and Virga.

Jordan's first novel, The Gin Girl, (Livingston Press, 2003) has garnered such high praise as, "This author writes with a hard bitten confidence comparable to Ernest Hemingway. And yet, in the Southern tradition of William Faulkner, she can knit together sentences that can take your breath." Florida Toda y. Kirkus Reviews described her second novel, The Messenger of Magnolia Street, (Harper Collins/Harper One) as "a beautifully written atmospheric tale." It was applauded as "a tale of wonder" by Southern Living Magazine who chose the novel as their Selects feature for March 2006 and by other reviewers as "a riveting, magical mystery" and "a remarkable book." Her most recent work, Saints In Limbo, (Random House/Waterbrook) arrives in stores May 19, 2009. Ms. Jordan teaches and speaks on 'The Passion of Story,' around the country and produces and hosts the radio program, Backstory City Limits with River Jordan, on WRFN, 98.9 FM, Nashville every Saturday at 4:00-6:00 CST.
She lives with her husband in Nashville, TN. You may visit the author at www.riverjordan.us

The Subtext of Life

Lately it seems the subject of subtext has been popping up in books, conversations, etc everywhere I turn. I think I am being sent a message of some sort from the great beyond to be on the alert for subtext. But I don’t really know if I know what subtext means.

In reading definitions of subtext I find it to mean hidden or unspoken messages in writings. It is that which is beneath the surface of the obvious. So in effect someone is saying something but meaning something else. That makes sense.

A few weeks ago I read a new book by Nelson DeMille. Mr. DeMille is a serious writer and his stories usually concern serious subjects. But in this book Mr. DeMille told a serious story but he told it with humor. The main character/narrator was always cracking jokes or making smart remarks. It was one of the funniest books I have ever read.

Maybe there was subtext there. Maybe DeMille was sending a message we should all lighten up. Even though the book concerned betrayal and murder it kept the reader amused from start to finish.

I looked back over the five books I have written to see if there was subtext in any of them. I then wondered if you can have subtext that the author didn’t even know existed. For example I write a lot about my brother. Someone told me that I must have a good natured brother to take all the mean things I say about him.

Is that true? I have always felt I ribbed him good naturedly about things. I go on about his being cheap but I always did it in what I thought was a funny way. But is there a subtext to my treatment of him? Am I really being mean and vindictive as I write those stories about his penury?

Then there was my best friend from high school. I wrote about him being so happy in high school that he never got over it. I remember after the book with that story came out my friend almost became my ex-friend. He was furious. Now I think what I thought was a story about my admiring him for being such a popular guy in high school came equipped with subtext that ridiculed him for not being able to get over it.

This subtext is a dangerous thing. It seems to seep into our writing whether we want it to or not. And if, as I think, it is often subconscious then I am in big trouble. How can you protect yourself against something you don’t even know you are doing?

When I write, I write about my life and people, places and things that come into it. I try never to be snarky or malicious. I honestly don’t want to hurt anyone. But sometimes I think that by wanting to be honest in all that I write I send a subtext that explains my true feelings.

We live and learn. Until a few weeks ago I was concerned with the “text” in my books and nothing else. Now that I have learned what “subtext” is I have to be on guard not to let my secret thoughts find their way into my stories.

Still even as I complain I am fascinated by the thought of subtext and will be searching it out in every book I read from now on. It’s like looking for buried treasure.

JKC

They're Dropping Like Flies

I saw the ad in this morning’s paper: GOING OUT OF BUSINESS. I suppose we may expect to see a lot more of that in the coming months, but this closing was especially hard for me to take. The last independent bookstore on Hilton Head Island is shutting its doors.

When we first moved here there were three: Authors, Port Royal Bookstore, and Island Bookseller. One by one over the past fourteen years they’ve succumbed to the kinds of pressures that are being felt by other independents around the country. It’s always easy to blame the chains; and, to be fair, the arrival of Barnes & Noble certainly had an impact. But I think the Internet has had as much or more to do with the demise of these small businesses as anything else.

I’m astounded at how cheaply Amazon.com sells books. New ones, mine included. Combine a couple of purchases, and even the freight is free. I joke a lot about writing’s being a profession you can conduct in your pajamas. Shopping has acquired the same convenience. Punch a few buttons, enter your credit card number, and wait for your purchases to show up on your front porch. And, as I said, it’s hard to argue with the price.

The Web has also made it simple to be a used book shopper, and the costs are even lower. It’s a great tool for finding out-of-print titles, but more and more people are opting for a used copy in good condition in preference to buying a new edition of a current book. This hurts not only the local bookstore but the author and publisher as well. But again it’s that convenience factor that has more and more people shopping from their chairs and looking for a good deal. And in these times of economic turmoil, it’s certainly understandable.

I know we’ve all heard this song before: Support your local bookstore. I also know many of us, especially writers, do just that. But sometimes it’s not enough. Sometimes, despite our best efforts, bookstores close. I feel as if I’ve lost a trusted friend. It’s sad. But I’m afraid we’re going to have to get used to it.

Kathy Wall grew up in a small town in northern Ohio. She and her husband Norman have lived on Hilton Head Island since 1994. Her 9th Bay Tanner mystery, Covenant Hall, will be released April 28 by St. Martin’s Press.

DROWNING KITTENS and FREEZING CHILDREN?

Sometimes I wonder why in the world I feel compelled to write, and in that manner of someone prone to over-analyzing things, I say to myself, “Vanity, vanity. All is vanity,” fling my pen (or push my keyboard) away and think writing is a silly thing to pour myself into; to suck up time and resources I could use for other things.
There are probably lots of reasons I write, some I don’t even know, or at least don’t admit to myself. I do know that I’ve figured out how to feel about a lot of things by writing about them. These flickering moments of insight are invaluable. But one reason I’m sure of, I write to preserve things. Handwritten journals fill a bookshelf in my bedroom. I feel driven to save my parents’ memories as well. Nothing prompts my Dad to share a memory with me like driving down Hog Mountain Road here in Watkinsville and seeing a field of cotton in all its glory. He gets this far away look in his eyes and tells stories about picking cotton that make it sound like a trip to Disney World. I”m sure it’s the brain fog called nostalgia that makes him look back so longingly on something that I believe was pretty torturous. I’ve never picked cotton, never hoed cotton, but when I hear my Dad’s stories, they fascinate me, and I must write them down. Many such memories made their way into three books I wrote called The Homegrown Series. Writing the books was a way for me to preserve many of my parents’ stories of their early lives spent on Georgia farms.
Memories of my very sheltered childhood wove themselves into a book called The Romance Readers’ Book Club. Now I’m two more books down the road (I just found a new agent and they’re with her, and I’m hoping for an imminent sale) and I’m once again tossing novel ideas around in my brain. I’ve got several, but today I was sitting on the floor of my bedroom waiting for my daughter and her boyfriend to clear out of the “family room” because number one, I didn’t want to interrupt their cuddle, and number two, I needed some space. I was bored until I spied my bookshelf full of journals. “Maybe there’s an idea for my next novel in there,” I said crawling over to look at the spines. But I shouldn’t have done it. It was like opening up a high school annual. I could not put them down. I sat there way too long, kept reading just one more entry, fascinated in a strange way, at these events of my life from five, ten, more years ago. Many were mundane; like treating the kids for pinworms and learning to cook a turkey, and some I’d totally forgotten. Many still struck me as stranger than fiction, which was the reason I’d recorded them in the first place. Here are a couple that had totally slipped from my memory:
“October 2, 1995: KITTY AUSCHWITZ. You think you know somebody and they tell you something you feel is totally out of character for them. Today Ruth called and told me about her and Joe’s new house in North Carolina. There were 10 or so feral cats living in the backyard with unchecked breeding - reproduction gone rampant. She and Joe decided not to feed the cats so that they would leave. But they didn’t - they only became more desperate, more bold, darting into the house when they could and pooping literally everywhere. You couldn’t step without squishing down into a steaming, stinky pile. The males sprayed the entire backyard. Their wild eyes made Ruth scared to pick them up to haul them away so Joe borrowed a big Hav-a-hart, and using this they lured them in with bits of meat. They bundled them into pillow cases and hauled the writhing mess to ‘Kitty Auschwitz’. Days later as Ruth was outside gardening, she found two pathetic mewling week old kittens with raw behinds and maggot-filled ears. Ruth flew into the kitchen and filled up her spaghetti pot with water and flung them in. They splashed and clawed and mewled and sunk. Some time passed, and then, filled with remorse, Ruth frantically dug the pair out, clutching them to her bosom and crying. One died anyway, and the other Ruth is currently medicating its butt, and stimulating it with a Q-tip to induce defecation per the vet’s instructions.”
Ruth and I have been best friends, closer than sisters, ever since winter of 2nd grade (we’re 46 now). We know each other inside and out. She adores felines. Always has at least one special house-kitty, sometimes more, that she literally dotes on. I can see at the end of that entry where I was trying to gain some insight into the harrowing scene I had recorded. I had to reach way back into long-ago conversations, and what I knew of Ruth’s upbringing until I recalled her telling me “Used to, my granny would regularly bag up new kittens and toss them into the creek. That’s just something they did on the farm. It was like pest control.” Then, in response to that, I had written; “Maybe this is just some family legacy Ruth has to carry on. A latent tradition.”
Here’s another entry from that same journal, a bit over a year later. I read it this morning, lurking there, waiting for Iris and her boyfriend to go out of the house, and ever since I’ve been turning it over in my mind in regard to a possible ‘novel idea’:
“FREEZING CHILDREN. November 13, 1996. What do you think about freezing children when they are five years old? I met this guy at the High Hat on Saturday night when Anne’s band was playing and I told him I had a 7 year old girl and a 5 year old boy. He said that if he had his druthers, he’d freeze them at age 5 since that is when they are absolutely perfectly wonderful. Well, he added that his two sons are 12 and 16, pretty ornery ages for the most part. We talked on and I could see that inside he was a pretty pathetic guy in many ways, very needy. Maybe starved for the human physical touch because he kept patting me, hugged me once, then offered me some liquor. I told him I don’t touch the stuff at all and tried to excuse myself. “I want a child,” he said in this pleading voice, “who’ll love me no matter what. Like a 5 year old.” But after I finally got away, I thought about it, and I decided I would definitely not want to freeze Gus in at any one age, even a pretty good one like he is now, 5. He’s mostly independent, reads, can entertain himself, and can converse to an extent. It’s a lot better than babyhood and toddlerhood. Sure, I love it that he’s currently in this uncynical not-too-big-to-kiss-Mama stage. But, wouldn’t it be really, really odd, not to mention selfish, to lock a kid in? To keep him 5?! Time will pass and he will change, I realize, most likely become embarrassed of me in his teen years, do some objectionable things, but that’s all part of life’s journey. It’s fascinating to watch a human grow, to change, and I can’t wait to see what he’ll become.”
Well, it’s January 8, 2009, and Gus turns 18 in 2 weeks. I now have to bribe him to get him to hug me. Here’s how that works: he yells downstairs and asks me to bring food and drink upstairs to him as he sits at Facebook, or... and I holler back up, “Only if I get a hug!” Then I carry food and drink and bend over to hug his resentful, teenage self. Our conversations are mostly one-sided, with me talking away and him responding in these monosyllables, “Yeah” and “Huh?” Yes, I know he’s no longer a cuddly, innocent boy who thinks I hung the moon, but I cannot imagine wishing away all those years, those TIMES we’ve shared.
So, I’ve been daydreaming today, playing the author’s favorite game of What If? “What if?” I keep asking myself, “What if there were this mother who froze one of her children, at say, 5, and she just hungrily had this kid remain that age to adore her while she grew older and older and ...
Well, tomorrow I’ll probably wake up and toss that novel idea right out the window, but if I don’t toss it around in my mind first, how else will I find out who I am and why I’m here, and on another level, what I’m supposed to be writing?

To learn more about Julie L. Cannon and her books visit juliecannon.info

Guest Blogger: Rhonda Leigh Jones

Telling people from my Georgia hometown about my vampire novel, The Maestro’s Butterfly, is like drinking a really strange glass of wine. First, there is a bouquet of excitement when they learn I’ve been published. Then, an initial taste of interest which builds as they find out about the erotic elements and the little twists and turns involved in having a vampire lover. After that, there is the finish that comes seconds after they ask where my vampire lives.

“Hephzibah,” is the answer.

First, there is shock. Then, laughing. Lots and lots of laughing.

You see, many people can’t imagine a dangerously debonair 18th-century French vampire like Claudio living in a place like Hephzibah, Ga. The rural town just outside of Augusta sports an image of being home to a bunch of run-down little houses and aging pickup trucks sporting Confederate flags. There are rustic little feed ‘n’ seed shops and bars that boast having “both kinds of beer” – Bud and Bud Light. In addition to all that local color, there is an aroma reminiscent of old gym socks being boiled in cabbage, which comes from the paper plant.

How in the world, my homies want to know, can a man who dines only on the most beautiful women he can find, live there?

Easy. That’s not all Hephzibah is. Just as that’s not all the South is.

When you live in a place, it can be pretty tempting to miss the romance of it. That’s especially true if you experience only the terrible rush-hour traffic or blistering heat. Anyone who steps outside of that humdrum day-to-day existence and really looks around, who spends some time searching for the little tidbits of texture that can make a place worth living in, knows that the South is actually a great place to have a romance.

We have a long tradition of romantic things, and there are still plenty of sights and sounds with which to spice up a Romance setting. Summer—which lasts from about May to October here in the Central Savannah River Area—is my favorite time of year. That’s when you can smell the lemony magnolia blossoms on the Hill, and the honeysuckle down by the river. That’s when you can hear the buzzing and chirping of cicadas and frogs, and the hooting of owls at night, and when all it takes is a cool breeze in the middle of the afternoon to make you feel like the happiest person in the world.

One of the strangest things I tend to say about the South, especially Georgia, is that we have the prettiest dirt anywhere. There is nothing like the deep, rusty color of Georgia red clay, and no power in the universe strong enough to get it out of your clothes. But when I see it after being in far-off lands where the dirt is some strange color like black or brown, it lets me know I’ve come home.

Don’t even get me started about summer storms, where pink or blue veins of lightening streak across the sky and thunder rumbles like God’s own bowling alley. Rain comes down in big, sloppy drops. And you can play in it, because it’s warm.

In Hephzibah, if you know which turns to take away from Highway 56, you can find some lovely, green country estates that use their majestic old trees to shelter their owners from a noisy, concrete world. In these pastoral paradises, your characters can be serenaded by crickets and treated to the low songs of cows in the distance or the crowing of a rooster. They can take romantic forest walks or lie out under more stars than you can imagine. So many stars, in fact, that they give the night sky a soft, white glow.

Of course, you can find romance in any setting if you bother to look, but it’s just so very easy to do in the South that it surprises me when people give me blank looks and say there’s nothing good here. As if the only good things in life were terribly expensive and purchased from boutique shops in high-rise buildings overlooking crime-ridden alleys.

If you are living in the South and contemplating whether to set your next book in Manhattan or L.A., why not take a different approach? Consider choosing a place where the days can be long and slow, the aromas heady and the passion high. You may find yourself falling in love with the familiar as though it were an oddly handsome stranger glimpsed across a crowded New York art gallery.

Sometimes the exotic is just outside your door.

As an erotic romance writer, Rhonda Leigh Jones believes that the most important sex organ you have is your brain. What happens in the mind - the associations, the memories, the emotional content - is what gives meaning to the actions. Her writing reflects that. Rhonda writes about power dynamics. She enjoys frightening, dominant men, and women who find strength in submission. She will take you to the edge of your darkness—and then push you in. Rhonda was born in Augusta, GA in the United States, in 1968. She holds a B.A. in English, with a professional background in journalism.My second book, THE MAESTRO'S MAKER is now available! Find both it and THE MAESTRO'S BUTTERFLY at www.RavenousRomance.com. They are “kinky, edgy romance” with vampires, as well as strong elements of domination and submission. Go now.

Why I Want to go on the Amazing Race...

If you knew me, you'd know that the mere thought of me being on the Amazing Race is absurd. I travel with my own sheets and Lysol. I am very particular about where I stay. And when I went to Romania, well, let's just say thank the Lord I had me some cheese crackers!

But there is something inside of me that so wants to be on the amazing race. However, I would have to have a partner who isn't afraid of heights, will eat anything and can speak most languages and is well versed in "nasty". Because some people can just be plain nasty! And I'm a southerner, we don't do nasty. We do sweet as pie to your face and do "nasty" behind your back. Well, some do. Not me.

I mean serious, if I got to a challenge and had to bungie jump, well, you'd have to just knock me out and push me over because that's the only way I'd go. Or, if they stuck pig brain or, or, well, I can't imagine anything worse...but if they stuck that in front of me and said bon'appetite, I'd say, "If he don't come fried I ain't eatin' him!" And if I got to a road block and they told me I had to shave off my hair, well, I did think Demi Moore looked cool in G.I. Jane, but sister doesn't have her face, and I've grown fond of my locks, so I'd have to turn around and go all the way back.

The trouble is there is no one willing to go with me. No one wants to share this adventure! I can't understand why. I don't cry often. I throw fits only when necessary. And I'm almost over my fear of packed trains in India! So, I think I'd be a perfect partner.

It is a new year. The Amazing Race is accepting applications. And I do know both of my brother's social security numbers. So, what they know won't hurt them.

But if I never make it on the television show I have determined that this year is going to be an Amazing Race for me. Everyday. I'm going to eat things I've never eaten before. Did that new years day actually. Ate collards! I know I'm southern, but I never liked collards. But poured hot pepper vinegar over those things and I was like wow! I'm going to jump off of something this year! Maybe a hotel bed, or my sofa, but I'm jumping off of something! And I'm going to travel somewhere odd. Somewhere I've never been. Hey, I've never been to Washington State. Last person I saw come out of there looked kind of odd.

But no matter what it's going to be a race and it's going to be Amazing! Hope to see you along the way...


Denise Hildreth lives in Franklin, Tennessee where she makes her home with Maggie and Sophie, has long dinner with good friends, loves a good book by a southern author and would share a coke with you anytime. Oh, and every now and then she writes a book.

Does anybody else get irritated by the way somebody-out-there keeps making unauthorized changes in our lives?
As the New Year began, my husband connected “the box” which is supposed to improve our lives by improving our television picture. I was his able assistant, sitting on the couch knitting, swearing in appropriate places and, ultimately, reading the instructions before he lost his mind.
But tell me this: what right did whoever-it-was have to decide that our television needed changing?
It’s the same question I ask every time an automatic update on my computer changes something around. Next they’ll be coming into the garage to switch out my engine, or into my bathtub to fancy up the way I get hot and cold water.
As you might guess, I have a hard time with change.
You would think I’d be used to it. In my childhood, we moved every five years. In thirty-eight years of marriage, I have moved fourteen times. But every single time, I wander around the house or drive familiar streets grieving the loss of what I have enjoyed so much.
I hate it when my sons and grandsons get older.
I hate it when my favorite brands change their packaging.
I hate it when my muscles, bones, and memory don’t function the way they once did.
I don’t like writing a new year on my checks.
And yet . . .
As a writer, I know a story has no depth unless somebody or something changes. Unless change occurs on almost every page, readers put down the book. Change is what propels a story.
And, hard as it is to admit, change is what propels our lives. If we don’t change, we don’t grow, and growth is the only measurable sign of life. Think about it!
Furthermore, I have to admit that I have enjoyed every new place we have lived. I have made lasting friends in all of them. I have loved every one of our houses. Every year of life so far has been at least as good if not better than the one before. And my sons and grandsons are all more delightful this year than they were last year.
My dad is ninety-three. For forty years he played golf every week, but once he passed eighty and his partners all died, he started going to the gym three mornings a week. He still does. At eighty-eight he took lessons in gourmet cooking. At ninety, he mastered the computer. He’s talking about taking piano lessons. Change doesn’t seem to bother him at all. And he’s the youngest ninety-three you’ve ever met.
So as the new year begins, I am not making any resolutions, but I am claiming my genes. I am naming changes I’ve already gone through that turned out far better than I’d expected. I am naming people I’ve met, lessons I’ve learned, books I’ve written, and places I’ve seen that I would never have experienced if I’d lived in the nice changeless (and inaccessible to others) cave I sometimes yearn for on harried days.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I want to go watch a TV show. Because as much as it pains me to admit it, the picture really is much better.
And speaking of pictures, I want to include a little plug for a reprint of DEADLY SECRETS ON THE ST. JOHNS, the seventh and final mystery in my Sheila Travis series, because the new cover is lovely. Even that old book got—and deserved—a change!

Visit Patricia Sprinkle at http://www.patriciasprinkle.com/