The Pulpwood Queen Declares Joy to the World!

As I pondered what I would write about this first posting of the new year, what first came to my mind was my losing one of my best friends in the whole wide world on all of days, New Year's Day, 90- year old author, bookseller, historian, and genealogist Fred McKenzie.

I thought Fred would make the Guinness Book of World Records for living to be the oldest man alive. He never walked, he ran. He rode his bicycle fast, his little red truck even faster, and Lord knows what all he did when he flew his plane. Each minute of his life was filled with pure joy and abandonment in the moment. He was my inspiration and my hero. There was nothing we could not discuss and we shared pretty much the same philosophy of most of life's important issues. If ever there was someone who loved talking more than I do, and talking about books as much as me, it was Fred.

As the funeral approached, I got to thinking about how Fred died, fast and well-loved. Fred was not the type of guy who would have ever wanted to spend a day laid up in bed. He once told me, "When you stop, you drop," and he was right. I was not ready to let Fred go and I reluctantly and with great apprehension went to the funeral. I think everybody in town was crowded into the First United Methodist Church where Fred and I attended Sunday School. He arriving on his trusty bike, me in my Inferno Red Pacific. We often arrived at the same time and as we parked, I would smile with unfettered abandon. Fred was such a joy!

Then when one of the ministers spoke at the funeral, I changed my whole outlook on Fred's death. He told us that none of us thought we would ever be here for this occasion. In fact, we probably all thought Fred would live forever. He told us that none of us wanted to be there. I nodded in agreement. He also said that Fred had gone to heaven and we were quite selfishly the ones who did not want Fred to go.

It was true. All I could think about with Fred dying was me, me, me, when I should of been thinking about him, him, him. I could not imagine my life without my book buddy but Fred had gone on to his heavenly home. I suddenly was filled with pure joy. Joy for a life lived well, a life lived for the power of the written word.

The weekend after the funeral was my annual Pulpwood Queen hosted author, book, music, and theatrical convention which we call our Girlfriend Weekend Author Extravaganza. Fred was to have received the Doug Marlette Award, an award giving in memory of our dear author friend, Doug Marlette, to an individual devoted to a lifetime of promoting literacy. I had rushed to Fred's house the night before he was to go to surgery after hearing about it at church. I told Fred and his family that I hated coming to their house so late before the scheduled surgery date but I had to see Fred. I had to tell him how much I loved him and how I wanted him to have a speedy recovery because he was being honored at our Girlfriend Weekend. He just kidded and joked with me, "Oh Kathy, I'll be there. You know this surgery is going to be a breeze. I wouldn't miss your big ta do for the world." I was reassured but hugged and hugged him anyway. My last memory was him ever chipper in his red Christmas sweater, I had given him, hurrying to fill out his Christmas cards to get mailed before he went to the hospital. I found out later he rode his bike earlier that day to the post office to send off a batch.

God Bless Fred McKenzie! Can you imagine hand written Christmas cards and this wasn't just a note, but letters with photos too!

As the time approached for me to present the Doug Marlette Award during Girlfriend Weekend to Fred McKenzie's daughter, Dr. Carol Harrell, his granddaughter, Paula Phy, and great-granddaughter Stephanie Phy, I thought how am I going to keep my act together. But Fred was right, he was there with me, big time. Not that I did not cry, I did, tears of joy for knowing one of the most amazing men I have ever met.

And Fred did leave me, yes, indeed. But he left me with this year a true gift, that it is now time for me to stop talking and start listening. I really have been listening this year. Listening to the authors speak at Girlfriend Weekend. What a joy! As author, Jane Porter poured out her heart and soul to us, I listened. As author, Mary Corrigan spoke of her father, I listened. I listened so much I have never felt such tremendous joy and happiness. So for all of you out there that are big talkers like me, remember this year to be big listeners too. When I heard Jennifer Hudson sing the Star Spangled Banner during the Super Bowl last night I was moved so much, that my voice caught and tears flowed.

Yes, life is filled with deep sadness and sorrow but life is also filled with other great joys. Fred would be happy to know he has inspired me to do great things, great works. Won't you join me? For me, all the answers are found right between the pages of good books. I don't know about all of you but it is really hard to talk when you are reading. So if you see me silent, don't think anything is wrong. Everything is finally falling into place in my life and everything couldn't be more right.

We are starting the Fred McKenzie Bicycle Brigade for Literacy in all of Jefferson's many parades this Mardi Gras. Fred always rode his two-seater bike in the parade and you can read all about my adventures with Fred in my book, "The Pulpwood Queens' Tiara Wearing, Book Sharing Guide to Life", Chapter 13, I Live for Adventure. Fred was also the author of two books, Avinger, Texas, U.S.A" and "Hickory Hill" which covered pretty much all the families and genealogy of everybody in this area. His used book store is still open, Fred McKenzie's Books on the Bayou for now so stop by for a visit. The Pulpwood Queens and I are also going to start a Fred McKenzie Storytelling Festival here in Jefferson in the next coming year as nobody loved telling a good story better than Fred.

For more on Fred McKenzie check out this feature in the Longview News Journal:

Business owner, pilot, author, McKenzie dies

Business owner, pilot, author, McKenzie dies. By Jamaal E. O'Neal ... McKenzie owned Fred McKenzie's Books on the Bayou in Jefferson from 2000 until his ...
www.news-journal.com/news/content/news/stories/2009/01/09/01092009_McKenzie_Obit_.html?cxtype=rss&cxsvc...7 - 49k - Cached - Similar pages

And now as we begin this new year, let's be inspired by Fred to do good works. I know that he is smiling down on all of us as nothing would please him more than promoting literacy and the power of the written word.

Kathy L. Patrick owns and operates Beauty and the Book, the ONLY Hair Salon/Book Store in the country, is the founder of the Pulpwood Queens Book Clubs, the largest "meeting and discussing" book club in the world, and the author of "The Pulpwood Queens' Tiara Wearing, Book Sharing Guide to Life", Grand Central Publishing. Her book was awarded the Top Ten Books in Texas for 2008. She is the founder of Girlfriend Weekend, Books Alive, and the up-and-coming Fred McKenzie's Storytelling Festival all held in her hometown of historic Jefferson, Texas. She is hard at work on writing her next book, "The Pulpwood Queens' Guide to Reading for a Higher Purpose" and currently teaching a lifewriting class to the homeless at Newgate Mission in Longview, Texas.

For photos and her daily literary blogs, go to www.pulpwoodqueen.com. For more on her book club, festivals, and her shop, go to www.beautyandthebook.com. Now that she is listening please comment on this blog or email kathy@beautyandthebook.com as she would love to hear your inspiring comments too!

A SOUTHERN WRITER LIVING IN THE WEST

Can a writer still be considered Southern if she lives in the West? Growing up, I adopted my parents’ Louisiana roots as home. No place tugs at my soul like Forest Hill, Louisiana. Even as my military dad’s career took us to destinations around the world, we returned often. Piney woods, icy creeks, old people sitting on porch swings. If home is where the heart is, Louisiana is the keeper of mine.

My dad’s last assignment was in New Orleans and so I got to attend high school and college in Louisiana. Mardi Gras and the French Quarter extended the boundaries of the place I viewed as home. But in my early twenties I left Louisiana for a new job in the Dallas area. Even with all the BMWs and glass buildings, I felt like I was still in the South. A slicker south, but a place where I could order a side of grits with butter and country music could be found at every other turn on the radio dial.

Soon I married a Texan, then gave birth to one. Before she entered kindergarten, we moved to Houston. There the sticky air, the rain, even swatting the mosquitoes kept me connected to the south I’d always loved. My grandfather’s camellia cuttings thrived in our backyard and I could hear the ice cream man’s tinny music all year long. I should have known better than to get too comfortable.

Two years later, my husband’s career change caused us to plop a For Sale sign in the yard, pack up and move to West Texas. As we drove the stretch of Highway 287 it was as if someone had plucked the trees from the earth in order to see clear to the other side of the world. This was not the south. It was a flat prairie with a canyon dropped in the middle like a gravy bowl resting in a huge saucer. This was the west. I didn’t know how I would ever call this place home.
The people were friendly enough, but try as I did, I couldn’t fit in. Maybe they sensed my yearning to be elsewhere.

One day I went to the post office to buy stamps. “You aren’t from around here are ya?” a postal worker asked with a Panhandle twang.

“How did you know?”

“Cuz you don’t talk like us.”

At the grocery store, I became excited when I discovered crawfish in the seafood section.

“Where is it from?” I asked, expecting to hear Gueydon or Crowley, Louisiana.

“China,” he said. “Would you like some?”

I shook my head. I didn’t even know they had any crawfish in China.

That was fifteen years ago. Amarillo has changed. We have crawfish from Louisiana, prosciutto from Italy and even a French bakery ran by a genuine Frenchman.

When people ask, “What is Amarillo like?” I tell them we have real cowboys in our Starbucks.
Although I’ve never gotten used to the occasional stench of the nearby cattle feed yards, I have learned to appreciate the wide open spaces. Still there is the longing. I’m not alone. Recently two of my former classmates and I spent a weekend together. Laurie now lives in Arizona and the last twenty or so years, Lisha has made Santa Fe her home.

“I get claustrophobic when I go back to Louisiana,” Laurie says. “All those trees.”

We talk about the beauty of the sunsets, canyons, and mountains. But we understand when Lisha says, “I get homesick whenever they have a hurricane.”

The south is a part of us. We couldn't shake loose, if we wanted to. Although at times we feel as if we’ve betrayed it like restless people taking on wild lovers. We dream of returning to the south, knowing that we might never be able to. Circumstances brought us here. Commitments keep us bound. We are Southern women living in the West.

.

Kimberly Willis Holt continues to write in the west, but makes frequent trips to the south. No matter where she is, she continues to eat grits and butter. You can learn more about her at her website: http://www.kimberlywillisholt.com/

Sharyn McCrumb: When Kenny Got An A

When I was just out of college, and about ten years away from publishing my first novel, I taught school for a couple of years. I was a very young schoolteacher, trying to cope with a classroom full of mostly male roughnecks in a private boarding school that catered to inner city athletes, who were being groomed for college basketball teams. It was the kind of place that celebrated when one of the students made 800 --total-- on the SAT.

Because it was an underfunded private school in a small town, everyone on staff did more than just teach one subject. I taught English, French, and Spanish, seven periods a day, and I was the drama department, putting on skits and plays with whichever students felt like treading the boards. Most of the guys I taught were nice enough, but they considered academics an arbitrary and unnecessary obstacle to an athletic career.

These guys weren't geniuses by a long shot, but even by their standards Kenny was dumb. He was in my first year Spanish class, a sweet and cheerful dumpling of a fellow, not a tall, toned athlete like most of his classmates. I’m not sure how he ended up in this Augean stable of jocks, but there he was-- always amiable and laid back, just drifting through the months, in hopes of eventual graduation.

While he was certainly of normal intelligence, Kenny was hopeless at schoolwork, and not inclined to apply himself to do any better. The other boys teased him mercilessly about being a dolt, and Kenny always took their taunts in good humor, but I resented it on his behalf. His tormenters weren’t cracking the books, either, and I felt that their C-minuses hardly entitled them to belittle poor Kenny for his inevitable F’s.

So... on April Fool's Day that year... before Spanish class, I decided to score one for the underdog. That morning I snagged Kenny in the hall as classes were changing, and had a private chat with him."I'm giving a pop quiz in Spanish today," I said.

Kenny expressed no surprise or distress. He took his F's as they came, philosophically.

"It's going to be an April Fool's joke.”

Kenny nodded, politely uncomprehending, but willing to humor me.

“Kenny, you know how every time I give a quiz in Spanish class, everybody moans that they weren't given the information covered on the quiz cover?"

Kenny nodded. He never complained, but only because he had no hope of ever passing a quiz, notified or not.

"Well, this time they'll be right. The questions on today’s quiz will be on nothing we ever covered. Here's the deal, Kenny. Whatever you put down on this test will be the right answer, okay? Just back me up. Claim we covered the material and that you know all the answers. Whatever you put will be correct. Just don’t let on to the rest of the guys that it’s a prank.”

Kenny grinned and nodded, and we went on to class separately, ready to stick it to the bullies in Spanish I, where we had been doing a history unit, studying the conquistadores.

As soon as they were settled, I said, "Take out a sheet of paper. We're having a quiz."

A room full of groans. "On what? You didn't say there'd be a quiz."

Kenny sang out, "Yes, she did! Yes, she did!" His sheet of paper was at the ready, and he looked up at me like a greyhound in the slip.

"First question...what was the name of the horse of Hernando Cortez?"

"WHAT?" screamed 22 voices.

"I know! I know!" Kenny was scribbling furiously.

“Next question. What was Cortez’s favorite book?”

In the front row, Walter, another non-jock who enjoyed an A average with hardly any competition, narrowed his eyes. “Now I know that wasn’t in the textbook.”

Kenny nodded vigorously. “But she told us! I remember. I know what it was.” He scratched a few words on his paper, and looked up, eager for the next question.

The questions got increasingly bizarre, the protests got louder, and Kenny greeted each question with a triumphant nod, as he set down his answer with scholarly confidence."Oh, my god," one of the brighter guys said, "If Kenny knows the answer, it must still be on the chalkboard."

Automatically, all eyes went to the chalkboard, but it was completely blank. With a beatific smile, Kenny was still writing down the names of all the Spanish soldiers in Company C. Bill Cosby, Burt Reynolds, Terry Bradshaw…

Guys in his immediate vicinity were now leaning over Kenny‘s shoulder, trying to copy answers from his paper-- a novel experience for him. I pretended not to notice, so that he could savor the triumph of shooing them away from his work instead of being the shoo-ee.

Eventually-- I think it was the question about how many of Pizarro's soldiers were left-handed that did it-- Walter remembered what day it was, and realized that the quiz had to be an April Fool's joke. When he sang out “April Fool,” they all laughed, mostly out of relief, but at least Kenny had been given his moment of triumph. And to keep my part of the bargain, I voided the quiz-- except for Kenny’s. He got his only A of the year. Or maybe ever..

A year later, I got accepted to graduate school, and went off to the university. Except for an occasional stint as a writer in residence, I never taught again. I don't know what ever happened to Kenny, but even if he has forgotten me, I'd like to think he remembers the only quiz he ever aced, and how it felt to be-- if only for a moment-- the guy at the top of his class.

Now we live in an age in which knowledge stored in one's head isn't really the sign of intelligence it once was. Why should I memorize, say, the list of U.S. vice-presidents, when someone next to me can Google it on his Blackberry, and come up with the answer before I do. I wonder who the smart guys will be in the brave new world. -- Probably still not Kenny, but it would be nice to think he had a shot.

* * *

Sharyn McCrumb has just completed her first co-authored novel, Faster Pastor with NASCAR/ARCA driver Adam Edwards. She won a 2006 Library of Virginia Award and AWA Book of the Year for her novel St. Dale, which was featured at the National Festival of the Book. Named as a “Virginia Women of History” for 2008, she is known for her Appalachian Ballad novels, including the New-York Times best-sellers She Walks These Hills and The Ballad of Frankie Silver.

Her novels, studied in universities throughout the world, have been translated into ten languages, including German, Dutch, Japanese, and Italian. She has lectured on her work at Oxford University, at a writers workshop in Paris, at the University of Bonn-Germany, and at the Smithsonian Institution. She has presented programs in 40 states, and four foreign countries.
A film of her novel The Rosewood Casket is currently in production.

Joshilyn Jackson: Song Dunce Gets an iPod

I don’t like songs.

I’m a word person, so I sometimes like lyrics. If a song comes on the radio, and IF it has played enough for me to absorb some of the words, and IF I like the words, I will sometimes say, “OH! I LIKE THIS SONG!” and warble tonelessly along in what others assure me is an entirely different key than the one the actual band is using.

When I say “OH! I LIKE THIS SONG!” I do not mean that I, Song Dunce, feel any sort of emotional or even much aural response to the notes coming out of the radio. It’s just convenient shorthand for, “HEY! I KNOW THESE WORDS AND I AM GOING TO QUASI-SING THEM NOW, VERY LOUDLY, IN ORDER TO EXPERIENCE MILD PLEASURE. ALAS! MY AWFUL SINGING IS CERTAIN TO HINDER YOU IF YOU ARE TRYING TO EXPERIENCE MILD PLEASURE. BUT YOU CANNOT STOP ME, BECAUSE IT IS MY CAR.”

I include, “It is my car” in the translation because my car is the only place I currently have a radio or other song-delivery device. I think my husband has a stereo somewhere because sometimes I hear songs going in the house, but I am not sure where this object resides.

All the above being true, even so, even so, after I post this, I am going to willfully and with malice of forethought drive over to Tar-jay or Best Buy, whoever is cheaper, and hand them a greasy fistful of dollars, and in return, they will hand me an iPod. (I am bitter that iPods do not come in ORANGE, unless I want to shell out 150+ for the NANO. I do not. So I will make a humphing noise and settle for a lime green shuffle.)

My main purpose is to get cheap audio books. The shuffle costs under 70 dollars, less than I would pay for two unabridged, new release audio books on CD. I listen to at least 10 – 15 audiobooks a year, more if I am traveling a lot. Once I HAVE the shuffle, I can get these same audio books at audible for under 15 bucks a pop, and the first three are under ten bucks. (!!!!)

SO last night my husband says to me, “Do you want to put any songs on your iPod?”
And I looked at him blankly and said, “Why? Won’t that take up valuable BOOK ROOM?”
He said, “Not really. Songs are small. And sometimes, the book you are listening to is inappropriate for people under 12. Sometimes, indeed the audiobook you are listening to is inappropriate for people under 30 who are not sailors. Or porn stars. Since you often drive a couple of people under 12 all over tarnation, you might want to have some songs you like…”

SO we sat down together and tried to think of some songs I like.

Me: What songs do I like?
Him: I don’t know. None, really.
*Long pause. We stare at the iTunes store*
Me: OH! I like that one about the guy who has breakfast with the other guy and reams him out.
Him: …
Me: You know, it’s a song and I like it and the one guy, he reams the other out at breakfast? And it’s sad?
Him: How does it go?
Me: …
Him: Never mind. Silly question. So these two guys go to breakfast---
Me: Maybe they aren’t at breakfast.
Him: …
Me: Well, *I* think they might be, but I am not sure if the song says so explicitly. But it seems to me the one guy would take the other to breakfast to have this talk. I would. It’s a hard talk to have, because the other guy is in serious deep hot cheese, maybe drugs, something really deadly and awful, and I would at least buy my friend some eggs, you know, if I was about to unload a last-shot-now-or-never-come-to-Jesus on my friend.
Scott: *lightbulb goes off over his head* IS THIS IT?

That was it.

Scott REALLY likes songs, and he is an awesome song detective. I remember one time I came into his office and I said, “I ACTUALLY LIKE A SONG! Not just the words. I like all the parts of it. Even the parts that are MUSIC.”

This was big news. But I couldn’t tell him what song it was. Or where I had heard it. Or what it was about. Just that I had heard it somewhere a long time ago and I liked it and it was BOUNCY and DRUNKEN and possibly Irish or Scottish or Islesy of Walesy.

He said, “Can you remember ANY of the lyrics?”
“They share out a cocktail? One drinks the gin and the other drinks the tonic? And then there is a long part that goes LAR LAR LAR or BOP BOP BOP, not words, just a string of cheery yelling. It sounds like a song that comes from a place where they have PUBS instead of bars,” I said, and added in plaintive tones, “I wish I could hear it again.”
Then I promptly forgot about it.

About a week later, when my friend Karen called my cell phone, my RING TONE had magically changed…instead of the default T-Mobile dododo-DO-do, this bouncy drunky pubbish music came on and The Fratellis sang,
“And hey flathead don't check me in
Well hers is a tonic and mine is a gin
They don't come much more slick than you!”
BA ROPPA BOP BOP LAR LAR LAR!

I am about to be an ipod owner, and as it turns out the place I had originally heard FLATHEAD was an ipod commercial…



He found FLATHEAD from just that little conversation and made it my ring tone on the sly, and now I have bought more than one FRATELLIS CD and it almost seems like I may actually like a whole BAND. Add them to the Indigo Girls, and that makes two.

SO last night we played this FIND THIS SONG game for more than hour, with me saying some things about a song and him figuring it out. We found nine songs I like, and he only got frustrated ONCE, when I said, “There’s this unhappy guy in it doing something with a chair? And there are a lot of instruments in it. Or just one instrument maybe, but it sounds rich, like there are a lot of instruments, but it may just be one guitar. Or one piano. Or one something else…” and he said, “Does it remind you of hedgehogs? Because if it reminds you of hedgehogs, I probably know which song that is.”

Finally I remembered I had heard it while watching Shrek with Maisy, and Scott pulled it up. It turned out to be Rufus Wainwright’s cover of HALLELUJAH, which, ironically, contains these lyrics:

I've heard there was a secret chord
That David played, and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?

No, Rufus, I do not.
Even so, this is now my THEME SONG. Also, please note it DOES have a chair in it. He gets tied to it. I SAID it had a chair. SHEESH.

Scott won every round, save one.
There is one song I vaguely remember REALLY liking, and he could not get it.
If YOU like songs, maybe you can do better.

1) If the Fratellis and the Indigo Girls had a baby, it would sound a lot like this song. WEIRD BUT TRUE.
2) The singer is all GROWLY and fierce like Demi Moore when she played that coked out chick in Saint Elmo’s Fire.
3) The song has an evil dog in it. I think it is a dog? Some kind of bad animal. A bad dog or animal she is scared of but it is sexy and attractive, too? I suspect the dog of being a metaphor.
4) The song sounds very THUMPY. There are thumpy drums or something.

GOOD LUCK! If someone actually figures out this song, I will send that person a prize. How about an audio book, in honor of my still hypothetical but soon to be realized and disappointingly un-orange ipod shuffle? I will send you the book on CD, though, because I have NO idea how to send someone a download. I think I am out of THE GIRL WHO STOPPED SWIMMING audios, but I have BETWEEN, GEORGIA on CD. Or if you prefer, you can have a hardback signed first edition of THE GIRL WHO STOPPED SWIMMING in good old fashioned paper form.

First person to find the song and tell me the band and title or put a link to the song in the comments wins.

Only one song title or link per person please.

In other words, you can’t win by listing every song in existence that has an evil dog or animal in it, mostly because that will cause someone to put ME AND YOU AND A DOG NAMED BLUE up, and, yikes, no one wants THAT. Also, I truly don’t want to listen to 7 or 9 or 100 evil dog songs per comment to find if the SINGLE LONE ONLY ONE evil dog song I like is in there. Because? Say it with me…

I don’t like songs.

Bestselling novelist Joshilyn Jackson lives in Powder Springs, Georgia with her husband, their two kids, a hound dog, a scurrilous Boggart-thing, a lone and lonely geriatric gerbil, and a twenty-two pound, one-eyed Main Coon cat named Franz Schubert. She wishes their neighborhood was zoned for goats. Both her SIBA award winning first novel, gods in Alabama, and her Georgia Author of the Year Award winning second novel, Between, Georgia, were chosen as the #1 BookSense picks for the month of their release, making Jackson the first author in BookSense history to have Number 1 picks in consecutive years. Her latest, The Girl Who Stopped Swimming, is now in bookstores!

Guest Blogger

Sweet Justice Is Coming
By Jordan Dane
http://www.jordandane.com/

Imagine the horror of going to your teenager’s bedroom one morning only to find her missing. Her bed hadn’t been slept in and her clothes are gone.
In 2000, that’s what one mother in Florida faced. Her only child had conspired against her and ran away. And worse, she later discovered that her daughter had left the country—without having a passport. From the moment I read this news story, I was hooked and had to know more about how such an atrocity could happen. The teen’s trail might have gone ice cold, but her mother pushed authorities in a direction.

She knew where to start looking.

Only six months earlier, the girl had received a computer for a gift—a thoughtful present from a mother who wanted the best for her child. But this gift soon brought a virtual menace into their home. A charming and anonymous stranger lured the 14-year old girl to Greece—a man she’d met in a teen chat room. We’ve all heard stories like this. But after researching the facts behind this case, I was amazed at the audacity of this Internet predator.

And I wanted to shed light on the shrewd tactics of online predators in my upcoming book—Evil Without A Face (Feb 2009, Avon, $7.99)—the first book in my Sweet Justice series.

The online predator not only manipulated the teenager in Florida, but he also convinced law-abiding adults to cooperate with his schemes. These people thought they were helping an abused kid, but they didn’t know the facts, check with her family or contact local law enforcement. This stranger duped an employee of the local phone company into arranging for a private cell phone to talk to the girl directly. His slick manipulation scored him a purchased airline ticket (without a direct connection to him) and a clandestine ride for the girl to the airport. But after he bribed a child pornographer to acquire an illegal passport for her to leave the United States, the girl was out of the country before her mother knew she was gone.

And the chase to save the girl was on—a mother’s worst fear.

Now I know what some of you are thinking. This happened in 2000, before the added airport security measures were implemented after 9/11 in 2001. The girl would never have been allowed on a plane without proper ID. But after contacting a source in the airline industry, I was shocked to learn how many children travel unaccompanied and without a valid ID on domestic flights these days. So this extraordinary Florida case became the framework for my novel, Evil Without A Face. And I chose to set part of the story in the unique venue of Alaska where I had lived for ten years.

My novels have the feel of being ripped from today's headlines because real crime inspires me. Who says crime doesn't pay? Violence is like the ripple effect on the surface of still water. The wake radiates out from the victim and touches many people. In my books, I give a voice to the many victims of crime.

In Evil Without A Face, an illusive web of imposters on the Internet lures a deluded teen from her Alaskan home and launches a chain reaction collision course with an unlikely tangle of heroes. A new kind of criminal organization becomes the faceless enemy behind an insidious global conspiracy. And the life of one young girl and countless others hang in the balance. This is the initial driver to my new series. With an international setting, these thrillers will focus on the lives and loves of three women—a bounty hunter operating outside the law, an ambitious vice cop, and a former international operative with a mysterious past. These women give Lady Justice a whole new reason to wear blinders.

And their brand of justice is anything but sweet.

After researching the case in Florida, I became more concerned for naïve kids socializing in cyberspace—young people like my nieces and nephews. Savvy online criminals lurk in anonymity and carry on without fear of repercussion. I’m an active member of MySpace and Facebook and know how they operate. But these social networks aren’t the problem—the criminals are. And as you’ve seen in the headlines and on TV, the online community has become a real hunting ground for predators.
Why not? It’s easy pickings.

For the most part, the Internet is an invaluable tool. And it breaks down the barriers between countries, allowing many of us to have international friends. But the anonymity of cyberspace attracts all sorts of users with criminal intent. Terrorists have found new high-tech ways to recruit online and they have duped some Internet users into funding their activities or have resorted to outright stealing through subterfuge. And since crimes that cross over jurisdictions and international borders are harder to prosecute, offenders often get away with their schemes. That's why I wanted to write Evil Without A Face and dole out my brand justice.

After all, who couldn’t use a liberal dose of ‘Sweet Justice’ when reality becomes stranger than fiction. How has your use of the Internet changed over the years? And if you have children who use online resources, can you share some tips on how you keep them safer?

Avon/Harpercollins launched Jordan Dane’s debut suspense novels in a back to back publishing event in Spring 2008 after the 3-book series sold in auction. Ripped from the headlines, Jordan's gritty plots weave a tapestry of vivid settings, intrigue, and dark humor. Publishers Weekly compared her intense pacing to Lisa Jackson, Lisa Gardner, and Tami Hoag—suspense that “crosses over into plain thriller country”. Pursuing publication since 2003, this national best selling author received awards in 33 national writing competitions, including Best Book of 2008 by Publishers Weekly in Mass-Market for her debut novel. Visit her website at www.JordanDane.com.

MY WRITING LIFE

Carolyn Haines



I’m a fool for animals. It’s a simple fact that shapes the boundaries of my life in a way that many people don’t understand. I don’t really understand it myself, I only know that there are two things which seem essentially “right” about my life. One of them is writing and the other is caring for these animals.
It’s tax season, and the time to account for the financial landscape of the past year is here. While I’m always stunned at the figures that I tote up, I’m no longer ashamed of the fact that there will be under five visits (either in the flesh or on-line) to clothing/shoe stores and lots-o-trips to vet/farrier/farm and feed/pet supplies/etc., etc. My priorities are reflected (much to my accountant’s bemusement) in the totals. But no monetary figure can reflect the joy that I derive from knowing these 21 critters (horses, dogs and cats, plus a few wild things) have the best life I can provide for them. It doesn’t change the distressing global picture of animal welfare, but it is a small and tiny step. All of my animals are spayed and neutered, and I only wish I could do more.
With the exception of three of the horses, all of my animals are strays. They sought me out, one way or another. Each one has a unique story and personality. Each one has taught me lessons about courage and endurance and a willingness to trust after harsh abuse. My writing is incredibly richer because of them.
A famous writer once said that air-conditioning would be the death of the true Southern story (this is a bad paraphrase). His point was that our connection with the land made us unique. Once we’re “hermetically sealed” within the four walls of a building, we lose our contact with the environment and with our neighbors.
I can’t speak for other writers, but it is exactly my love of and connection to land that gives me many of my characters. I am part of this region, this place, these people, and much of my “reality” comes from living a rural life and an intimate, day to day connection to the weather, the seasons, the land.
My daily routine is fairly rigid, something that gives me problems in my writing life because it limits my freedom to travel and give talks. Normally, I’m up at six a.m. and after a couple of cups of coffee, I’m out the door to feed the horses. I never anticipated having more than three horses, but there are now seven here. Some are old and one is crippled. The dogs and cats head out the door with me. We are sprung—free of the house and out in the cold/wet/heat/sunshine. It doesn’t matter. The horses must be fed and hayed each day, twice a day, and sometimes three times if the weather is cold and Miss Scrapiron (she will be 32 this year) is not eating well. On bad weather days, my world revolves around Miss Scrapiron’s whims.
Consider the hundreds of pounds of feed that must be hauled in and unloaded. Stalls to be cleaned. Fences walked and mended. Grass bush-hogged. I spend a great deal of time outdoors, and I have to say my health is better for it, and my deep connection to the land is strong and true. I love this sandy soil that makes growing grass a challenge and makes me a slave to weather patterns when it’s time to lime and fertilize. I exert tremendous energy trying to control my life, but I must surrender to the weather.
While I teach at a university and my students gently tease me into an effort to keep one foot on the frontier of change (technology is as much a burden as a benefit for someone like me) I also have one foot firmly planted in the past and a way of life that’s being choked to death by subdivisions and the greed of developers. The farms all around me are dying. The cost of farming has gone through the roof, and the work is hard and difficult. Folks my age and older, especially those with children who want no part of such a demanding life, see that selling out is a way to put a little money aside for a future that doesn’t look too bright.
If you have a yen to gamble, buy a farm. Trying to raise a crop—any crop—is the biggest gamble you can take. The weather is far more exciting than any roulette wheel or deck of cards.
I’m not at a place where my heart will allow me to walk away from this life. If I lived in a subdivision or an apartment, I couldn’t write. The vein of story that I tap into is directly related to the life I lead.
And if I ever doubted that my love of land was a major part of my writing, WISHBONES brought home to me how much my audience also feels the roots that run deep into Southern soil. When my character Sarah Booth Delaney decided to follow her dream to Hollywood when she got a chance at a movie role—holy cow! The e-mails zinged into my box. Sarah Booth, like me, is a product of the soil of Mississippi and the majority of my readers wanted her back home in Zinnia, Mississippi.
She has her hound and her horse (being fictional creatures, they are not nearly as demanding as the real thing). I can write with authority about this life, because I live it everyday. And I love it.
The first word I learned to say (at least this is family legend) was horse. As a child, I was horse obsessed. I once “stole” a horse tethered outside a café in Texas. We were on vacation and I told my mother I was going to the bathroom.
I was only six and god knows how I managed to climb up on that patient creature. But I did, and like all good cowgirls, I headed off into the sunset. My dream had been answered—until my parents and the owner of the horse caught me a short distance away. The horse was returned, no charges pressed (the cowboy thought I was cute with my pigtails), and I was safely put in the backseat while we continued on our way.
Growing up, I wanted to be a cowgirl, to solve mysteries like Nancy Drew, and to write. Fancy that.

Ad Hudler ... wants to know!!

A sizable chunk of the surfers who land on my cyber island of AdHudler.com do so because a word-search has lead them there. They type a word or phrase into google, as we've all done thousands of times, and if any of those word combinations are contained in the hundreds of AdHudler.com blog entries, well, then, they're directed to my site. I get an hourly list of the search-engine phrases everyone uses, and, my oh my, has it been enlightening. Also, a little disturbing.

I've long suspected that google has slowly been replacing the priest, psychiatrist, physician and mother in our lives, and my venture into blogging has certainly substantiated this theory. People ask google anything and everything. As witness to our secret, anonymous queries, google has learned the desires, fears, interests, passions and insecurities of us all. And now, I, too, know your secrets. The search terms don't lie …

"antiperspirant deodorant mental illness" Let me explain: I had blogged about how I only use deodorant and not antiperspirant because I fear that the latter causes bad things like cancer, impotence, impatience, etc. There's a reason God wanted those pits to sweat, so let them sweat. Obviously, someone else is worried about the same thing.

"underwear organizing" I conducted an unofficial poll, asking people if they folded their underwear before putting them away or simply threw them in the drawer. Results: 40-percent were careful folders, 60-percent were throwers.

"can you put soap in your butt?" (I am not making these up – I promise you.)

"I wear lizard skin boots am I bad?" (I have no idea how or why this person was directed to adhudler.com, but I have started watching peoples' feet in public very, very carefully.)

"our ad well endowed man for wife" (There's the reference to my name, of course. I can only speculate on the rest.)

"I dream about Alvin the chipmunk." (And I'm sorry about that, I really am. You must have been terrified by the photo of me in my size-10 Alvin Chipmunk slippers on Christmas morning, hmmm? Can you believe those things were available in a size 10?)

"why does my sweat smell like cat pee?" (Thank God I am not the only person with this problem. It started, inexplicably, about a year ago. But don't you think it would be more accurate to describe the odor as D-Con rat poison with higher notes of ammonia and oregano? At any rate, if you find the source of the problem please let me know immediately.

"Stephanie Abrams breasts" (I am a Weather Channel junkie, and I occasionally blog about the meteorologists there, but in my defense I have NEVER written about Ms. Abrams' breasts. She's always wearing a windbreaker, anyway, so I couldn't tell you if she's a double-A or double-D.) Also: Jim Cantore anything. Evidently I am not the only person out there with a crush/mancrush on this bald TWC meteorologist who always puts himself in harm's way, be it hurricane or tornado. We should probably add "stalker" to his list of potential dangers because people out there evidently want to know his status: "jim cantore divorce," "Jim Cantore affair," "where is Jim Cantore?" and "Jim Cantore suck."

"eat veins in chicken" I blogged about my realization that the dark, gritty vein that runs down a shrimp's back actually is his digestive tract, and if you don't de-vein the little guy then you're eating … well, you get the picture. It's a 2-for-1 deal: In addition to the shrimp being your lunch, you're also getting his lunch.

"naked women eye patches" While on book tour I'd blogged about meeting a reader in Jacksonville named Lonetta who wore an eye patch with a cute kitty on it … and in the same entry I'd mentioned how my friend had coerced me that day into stopping for lunch at a strip club on the interstate. So, I am exonerated. But you, dear curious googler? "naked women eye patches?!?!"

But the most common, and no less intriguing, search phase I've seen is a version of this: "cute cartoon turkey." And it wasn't solely a Thanksgiving thing, either. This search phrase started popping up in September, and continued well into February. Some people specifically want "a cartoon turkey with clothes."

Stymied, I googled it myself and was lead to what I wrote on this page on my website: "Dressing a turkey: What a weird use of the word 'dress.' Strange images come to mind, don't they? Little booties, a hat ... maybe underwear. I tried to google an image of a turkey in cute little clothes by typing in "cartoon turkey in clothes."

I'd also posted on my blog the photo that popped up in my google search of "cartoon turkey in clothes", which was not a turkey at all but rather a hot young woman in a very-low-cut black swimsuit, her long blond hair blown back by wind and her open lips all glossy and inviting. How and why did this woman's photo show up on my google search? Months later, I am still pondering the curious connection: Turkey breast, perhaps? Was it the word "cute?" Or is there some new code out there that I'm not aware of: "Hey, dude, that hot cartoon turkey at the bar just gave you the eye."

The list goes on and on: "birthday ad with tattoo," "balding guys with buzz cuts," "albino Canadian goose," "preppie MILFS," "granite counter microwave radiation."

…"Do I have A.D.D.?" (Having the name "Ad" greatly confuses Google.)

… "santa white eyebrow dye," "nasty massage school," "bar soaps sold in mall of America," "cats in underwear."

…"His immense gut," "sibling rivalry in middle age."

…"Does cooking an apple in the beans help control gas?"

…"Is Mr. Clean a real person?"

And, my favorite to date: "What does it all mean?"

Indeed. I've been wondering that myself.

Ad Hudler is a novelist, essayist, blogger and small-space landscaper who lives in Florida with his wife and daughter. His newest book, "Man of the House," was published by Random House this fall. He can be found at AdHudler.com