Do you read epigraphs?

by Karen Harrington, author Janeology



I have a confession to make: I didn't know the term 'epigraph' until I published my book. When I was working with my editor, I kept referring to it as the 'quote page.' He quickly schooled me on the use and importance of epigraphs. When I told him I had the following quote taped to my desk for years while writing my novel, Janeology, he just said "Yes!"

"In almost every generation, nevertheless, there happened to be some one descendant of the family gifted with a portion of the hard, keen sense, and practical energy, that had so remarkably distinguished the original founder." - Nathaniel Hawthorne, The House of Seven Gables

Because the theme of my book centers on the genetic inheritance of multiple generations of one family, this epigraph felt like a gift. And it still thrills me a little to see the name Hawthorne on the opening pages.

And here’s the one I’ve chosen for my next work, Prodigal Son.

He who seeks revenge should dig two graves. – Chinese proverb.

Intriguing, huh? This simple phrase sets the perfect ominous mood for this story.

But I have another confession. Until I had an epigraph of my own, I tended to give them a cursory look in my hurry to get to Chapter One. Now, I linger on the epigraph page. I understand that, through her epigraph, the writer wants you to catch a whiff of what's to come, provoke a question, or set a mood. It has even been suggested that an epigraph is like the appetizer to the great meal that awaits.

What about you? Do you like epigraphs? Do you read them? Skip them? Have a favorite? If you are writing a book, have you chosen an epigraph?

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Visit me at http://www.karenharringtonbooks.com/ or at my blog - Scobberlotch

New Release From One of Our Own

Southern attorney Avery Andrews finds herself following the money as she pieces together a very cold case and a very cold-blooded murder, complete with a carnival fright-house mummy who turns out to be frighteningly real.

Cathy Pickens http://www.cathypickens.com/

In a Cook’s Kitchen By Augusta Scattergood

“I often think to make a friend’s fine recipe is to celebrate her once more, and in that cheeriest, most aromatic of places to celebrate in - the home kitchen."
Eudora Welty

I’m a better writer than a cook. In fact, I once started an essay for Mississippi Magazine with I’m not a serious cook, but I have a serious cookbook collection. And it’s true. My shelves are filled with cookbooks. I’m especially drawn to books published by schools and women’s auxiliaries, featuring dishes with intriguing names like Last Minute Leftover Casserole, Tomato Soup Aspic, and Dr. Carr’s Prescription (vodka, peach brandy, lime juice, sugar and ice).

My most spattered and dog-eared cookbooks are compiled by church ladies, mostly Southern. Into each recipe, I read a story. Sometimes the cooks’ familiar names take me back to a bridesmaid’s brunch, a baby shower, a funeral. My grandmother’s Canasta partner’s homemade Divinity Fudge, the football coach’s Lemon Chess Pie, my friend Irene’s mother’s asparagus balls fill up the pages of those spiral-bound volumes with memories.

And I feel that way about kitchens. I love their stories.

This New Year’s Eve, standing in the Mississippi kitchen that originally belonged to my sister’s mother-in-law, Christine Carlson, the talk turned to artichoke pickles. I’d never seen a Jerusalem artichoke till I met the Carlsons. Dr. Carlson grew them in his garden, Christine pickled them, and I ate them. With great appreciation. After her death, I knew I’d never taste such a delicacy again. I saw Jerusalem artichokes for sale once in my hometown supermarket in New Jersey, and I almost bought them. Then I saw the price. And realized they required peeling. So unless somebody steps up to the plate and plants Jerusalem artichokes in my sister’s backyard, scrapes and jars them, Christine Carlson’s pickles will remain a perfect culinary memory.

After my friends the Alleys have thrown a party, I like to land in their kitchen. Their food never ceases to amaze me. This year they served Hopping John and cornbread on New Year’s, homemade bread with basil butter and shrimp casserole for Christmas supper. Topped off with pound cake and lime curd. Sadly, I missed the original celebrations. But appearing at their house, post holiday festivities, guarantees not only the most fabulous leftovers but also stories that never stop. When we dug up a journal documenting a trip we took together ten years ago, we laughed at our stories of subway rides, rooftop bars, exotic foods we have eaten and lived to tell about. There’s nothing like a belly laugh to make you forget whatever holiday slight, the gift Santa overlooked this year, or even the arduous flight delays it took to get you there.

Stories that waft out of the kitchen like oregano in the soup pot end up in my writing, even if it’s hard to recognize them. Fig preserves a child turned her nose up at, biscuits shared on a front porch swing, the sweet tea, the artichoke pickles.

Southerners, even those who are fair-to-middling cooks, love to talk about food, love to eat it, and- if so inclined- to sprinkle it into their writing. My friend Helen Hemphill, author of popular kids’ books not necessarily about food, once told me her editor (himself a Yankee for sure) pointed out way too many food references in her first middle-grade manuscript. “I had my characters eating pimento cheese sandwiches every time they turned around,” she told me.

Well, of course, that’s what we do.

Like Miss Eudora, most of my best recipes bear the name of the friend who first made them. And although I wish my kitchen produced original, memorable dishes worth passing along, I’ll probably stick to writing about them. After all, is a story really a story without a pimento cheese sandwich or Aunt Emma’s fig preserves?

Standing in a familiar kitchen, handing the chef a wooden spoon, a red and green pot holder, a new microplaner to zest the lemon, I say hats off to my friends, the cooks. And, please, keep those stories coming.

Augusta Scattergood is a contributing writer for Skirt! Magazine where she writes about Book Groups and would love to hear about yours. Her essays and book reviews appear in Mississippi Magazine, Delta Magazine, the Christian Science Monitor and various websites. Read more about her reading and writing at her own blog: http://ascattergood.blogspot.com/

The Wall: An Author's Confession about Her Father's War

By Nicole Seitz, author of The Spirit of Sweetgrass, Trouble the Water and A Hundred Years of Happiness

I have a confession: I never wanted to know about war. When reading the newspaper, I would skim over the attacks in the Middle East. I would pause only briefly to read about fallen American soldiers before tearing up and moving on to some rosier section. I found it easy to avoid watching Platoon and Black Hawk Down. “But you’re a woman,” you might say, “and war is more of a masculine interest.” And I might agree and feel better about my head being stuck in the sand for so long, except for this simple fact: I am the daughter of a war veteran. As such, my avoidance of war things has had less to do with the stereotypical traits of females and more to do with my relationship with my stepfather.

There’s an age-old question: would you rather be loved or understood? I say they go hand in hand. If you love someone, then deeper understanding leads to deeper love. I would argue that I’ve always loved my stepfather, but until I began trying to understand him, my love was limited. It fell upon the brick wall he surrounds himself with. It is this same brick wall that thousands of war veterans build brick by brick in order to protect themselves from what lies in their own heads. Their own hearts. And there must be millions of children and grandchildren and spouses who have banged their heads on these walls in an effort to love and understand the veterans in their lives.

I am a wife and mother of two. I have a close-knit family. My stepfather has been in my life for thirty years, and I thought I had him pegged. He’s loud sometimes. He’s emotional others. He’s the most giving person I’ve ever met. He sometimes speaks what he should keep in his head. My mother used to have to kick him under the table to stop him from sharing too much information. Alcohol has been both friend and foe. He takes risks. He’s a hard-worker, a road warrior, a drill sergeant—a loving grandfather. I thought I knew this man who raised me, but I didn’t. In fact, I’m only beginning to now.

Two years ago, my husband and I took my parents out for their 29th anniversary to a posh Asian-fusion restaurant in downtown Charleston, SC. We ate heartily and sipped mojitos and wine, and then my father did something I’d never seen him do before. He started talking about his time in Vietnam. He described things he never had before. He admitted things I never wanted to hear. Tears rolled down his face as he shed the burden that sat heavy on his soul. My eyes stung. I felt connected to my father in those moments. I felt convicted of my purposeful avoidance of his war. I wondered why I had never taken the time to face the images, the sounds, and the history of what he went through nearly forty years ago. In those moments, my eyes and spirit locked with my father’s, and my life changed because all of a sudden I wasn’t afraid of what I’d learn about war, about him. For the first time, I desired deeply to crawl in his head and be there for him, with him, so he wouldn’t have to suffer those memories alone.

I am a writer. I deal with things through words on paper. I came home and wrote a scene that my father had told us, something that had happened to him recently when he found himself face to face with “the enemy” again after all these years, and how the emotions, the instincts, the haunting memories rose up again from their quiet resting place. I showed my husband the scene and he loved it. I showed it to my mother next and she whispered, “Oh don’t write about this.” I knew in that moment that this was exactly what I needed to write about. It was time I faced the truth of my relationship with my stepfather, and if I was going through this with a veteran, there must be thousands more, millions even, who might relate.

Upon beginning my third novel, A Hundred Years of Happiness, I became obsessed with the Vietnam War. I watched footage that made me ill. I read books I might never have read and listened to sounds I once shunned. I spoke with veterans—never with dry eyes. I attended a gala for Medal of Honor recipients. I tried to get into the head of a war veteran in order to create my main character, John Porter, inspired by my own stepfather. But the book is not really about war. It’s about family and war’s lingering effects. Ultimately, I wrote a book that I hope shows my stepfather how much I love him. How much I desire to understand him. How I will always be here for him if he ever wants to open up…again.

You know my stepfather. He’s the life of the party. He’s unpredictable, moody. You have someone just like him in your own life. Perhaps he’s your grandfather, your crazy uncle, your father, your son, your brother. In today’s times, perhaps he’s even your sister, mother, daughter—women who are fighting valiantly overseas in Afghanistan or Iraq. If I might offer my humble advice, I would say this:

It may take years for your loved one to open up about war. In fact, most vets don’t talk about it, and you may never be as fortunate as I was to have him or her open up. But please do yourself a favor. Don’t hide your head in the sand and act as if those things never happened. Because they did. War happened. And war has lasting effects on families and next generations. Never be afraid to read the difficult news or watch the films or read the books or look at the pictures of war. Our veterans overcame their fears and fought for our country. I will honor my stepfather and all the others who fought and are still fighting today by learning about their wars, talking about their wars, and working to break down the walls that stand between me and the heroes I rub shoulders with every day. Our veterans deserve not only our unconditional love but our boundless understanding.
_________________

Nicole Seitz lives in the Charleston, SC area and is the author of Trouble the Water (chosen as one of the "Best Books of 2008" by Library Journal) and The Spirit of Sweetgrass. She also paints the covers for her books. Her latest novel, A Hundred Years of Happiness, is being called "the must-read book of the year" by best-selling author of The Sunday Wife, Cassandra King. It releases from warehouses today. Visit Nicole's website at http://www.nicoleseitz.com/ to watch a book trailer and learn more.

Why People Hate to Read

My brother hates to read. He has a fantastic reason: "Reading transports me. And I usually like where I am." I should confess that he is likely the happiest person I know -- disgustingly, naturally happy.

I find his point hard to argue with.

My 13-year-old daughter doesn't hate all books, just the vast majority. Her reason is this: "I don't really like people so I don't usually like characters either."

Well, okay. I think I can kind of work with this one, especially as she gets older. Read novels with characters you're supposed to hate. Still, it's tricky. Like more people?

A friend of mine says that he hates reading historical fiction because it's too much responsibility to suss out what's historical and what's fiction. He's afraid he'll talk about the book and find himself passing off fiction as fact. He can't handle the pressure.

I've asked a lot of people why they think they don't like poetry. It's usually some variation on "Oh, I'm not smart enough to get it."

Let's face it. We can teach people to read, but we can't make them readers -- and certainly not lovers of all genres.

Most writers are readers. They were snagged at an early age. Wasn't E.L. Doctorow who said something like: A writer is a reader inspired to emulation?

I'm not, however. Although I'm often inspired to emulate, I'm a writer first. In the pre-writer era, I'd have been one of the cavemen worrying over my dirt scribbles. It feels deeply encoded into my genes.

At a recent author gig, I found myself saying, "I don't remember when I last read for pleasure."
I've been reading my students' work for work, other writers for blurbs, research for my own books, and, mainly, I've been reading to see other people's architecture, blueprints, to see how it's done. I've been taking books apart instead of reading them -- the way you give a young engineer a clock, he'll just open it up and mess with all the inner mechanisms.

Around the same time as the author gig, I lent a book to a friend. She said that she now knew why I read so slowly. "You write all over the inside of pages."

"Sorry about that."

She reminded me that if I didn't feel the need to converse with the text, I'd likely go faster.
So true, but easier said than done. I jot and dog-ear and underline. I can't do library books.

I don't know how to fix my own reading problem. It is a professional pit fall. It's impossible to watch films with a director or the show ER with a doctor or any courtroom drama with my father, a lawyer.

But I am still susceptible. There are moments -- small, brief, intense moments -- when the book as object disappears and the voice-over narration in my head goes away and some writer makes a world that replaces my own and, within that world, there is a new way of seeing something -- maybe something very small, maybe as small as a crease in a sheet of wax paper. And there is a rush -- pleasure. I can still be caught off-guard.

And ... let me just mention a few books -- that I've read or am reading -- some BRAND new -- and one classic -- that head-locked me into reading for pleasure ...

Antonya Nelson's new collection -- pub date was yesterday: Nothing Right. Startling, gorgeous.

Danit Brown's debut collection -- Ask for a Convertible. High hilarity.

Noir debut with great literary twists -- Pyres. Derek Nikitas. Dark.

Poetry. Frank Giampietro's Begin Anywhere. Oh how do we survive the wilds of suburbia. And just got Barbara Hamby's All-Night Lingo Tango. Don't miss it.

The literary classic Stoner, which isn't about getting stoned in either sense of the word.

Keep an eye out for Emily Franklin's food memoir about cooking with kids -- very funny.
Keep an eye out for Sheila Curran's second novel Everyone She Loved -- seriously good.
Keep an eye out for the next David Sedaris ... Dave Dickerson and his debut memoir.

And there are ones that I will kick myself for not mentioning. This is just a short, quick list.

But it seems right to pass them along -- writer to writer, reader to reader -- in an attempt to boost pleasure in a world where we need more of such a thing.


Julianna Baggott is the author of four adult novels, three books of poems, and MY HUSBAND'S SWEETHEARTS, under the pen name Bridget Asher. She also writes for younger readers under the pen name N.E. Bode, namely The Anybodies trilogy. Her new novel for younger readers is THE PRINCE OF FENWAY PARK, coming out in March. Her new novel for adults THE PRETEND WIFE comes out this summer. Her work has appeared in The New York Times, Real Simple, Glamour, Ms., Best American Poetry, Poetry, American Poetry Review, and read on NPR's Talk of the Nation. She teaches at Florida State University's Creative Writing Program.

http://www.juliannabaggott.com/
http://www.bridgetasher.com/
http://www.theanybodies.com/
http://www.princeoffenwaypark.com/

New Year’s Resolutions. Don’t you cringe at those three words put together in a statement? Yeah, Me too. So I never make them, resolutions that is. But I did make a To-Do List, which sounds vaguely better than a Resolutions List. On this list was “Facebook”.

For months my publicist has been pushing me to have my own page. I’ve been promising it was on my to-do list. Yeah that and lose weight, eat healthy, cut back on coffee, write ten pages a day, craft witty thank you notes on time, blog at least once a week, be nicer…blah, blah, blah. I probably don’t need to state the obvious, but I haven’t done any of those aforementioned to-dos.

Here was the problem: I have two teenagers who live on their Facebook. At least one of them (I won’t say which) threatened my life if I had a Facebook page. “Mom,” he/she whined, “I’ll die if my friends see you on Facebook.” I promised him/her that it would be a work-only Facebook and that I had no intention of “friending” his/her high school friends. After that blood-vow I decided to join the Facebook world with some trepidation – what if I didn’t have any ‘friends’? After looking at my teen’s pages I realized that this was the whole point – to gather “friends. I had a weird feeling about that.

When I was twelve years old, my pastor father told us that God had told him to start a church in Fort Lauderdale. God and I disagreed, but God won. He usually does. So at twelve years old I was friendless and lost in a south Florida middle school. All I wanted was ONE friend. Really, just one. Someone to sit with in the lunchroom; someone to walk with me to the bus stop. It’s a sad, empty emotion and I wasn’t keen on feeling it again.

Eventually I caved and this week I jumped into the Facebook pool. (I wanted to cross SOMETHING off the to-do list; now I feel so productive). I shouldn’t admit this – but it consumed my day what with finding friends and figuring out how to use all the apps (you can even put it on your iPhone). It reminded me of those days in school when we’d pass notes folded into small boxes like Origami; notes that said “do you like me –check yes or no”. Then we’d wait with stomach butterflies for the answer.

I’ve decided that Facebook is the adult version of the classroom note. But much, much more fun because of course we all want to be friends with each other. Of course – as authors and readers – we all want to laugh and share our stories and sorrows and accomplishments. I was wrong – it’s not about gathering friends, it’s about sharing our lives. In less than an hour I knew about the sad news of the Margaret Mitchell House layoffs (It’s so awful and sad and I want to do something to fix it); I knew that Janis Owen’s cookbook will be released (can’t wait!); that Joshilyn found the end of her novel (of course she did); that Karen’s daughter finally got a job. I read Ad’s pithy and wonderful updates; watched Daniel Wallace’s videos; learned about new novels being released; laughed at the comments others left on my wall (Just ignore any mention of my Tigerette status, really, ignore it); knew what Jackie K. Cooper was reading, etc…

The struggle won’t be keeping up with Facebook, it will be keeping from following my teenager’s examples and becoming addicted. As authors we lead a mostly solitary life; alone in our office trying to find the right words to say exactly what we think we want to say. But we really aren’t alone, are we? So will you be my friend? Check yes or no. J

Visit Patty Callahan Henry at http://www.patticallahanhenry.com/

Guest Blogger: George Singleton

Writing Through the Depression

There is no better time to write, I believe, than when bread costs ten bucks a loaf, everyone’s unemployed, gasoline prices unpredictably jump fifty cents an hour, and so on. The best time to write, oddly enough, occurs when the publishing houses decide to stop acquiring books, editors get laid off, and PR departments vanish. Right about now--and certainly for the next couple years, I’d say--is prime writing time. I understand that there will be doubters to my argument, and let me point out that the forthcoming spiel will only work if and only if the writer is moderately insane and completely obsessed.

During economic hardships and rising unemployment, most dependable, level-headed people spend their time looking for work, or extra work. They cut back on frivolous expenditures like overpriced coffee, books, magazine subscriptions, dining out, heat, and electricity. Ninety-eight percent of the people who thought, “You know, I’m going to write a novel this year” focus on other goals, like how to ruin their stockbrokers’ lives, or flatten the tires of their bankers, or perfecting hexes on governors and legislators. So right away for really determined writers, the playing field’s much bigger and less opponents are out there.

In a year or five, when the nation is back on its feet economically, who is going to have about three manuscripts ready for the publishing houses? It ain’t going to be the pinheads who spent all that time looking for work, or picketing the state house.

Now, I understand that you might not have electricity, thus no use of a computer, and so on. I have met people who said, “I can’t write unless I’m writing on a computer. I can’t handwrite! I must have a computer. Where’s my computer? Hey, don’t ask me to write a draft in a notebook, then retype the thing,” et cetera. Those people should will never continue to write, especially these days. Good. They’re the ones who always have their computers crash anyway, and they don’t have hard copies, and then they whine forever. Less of those writers is fine by me.

You’ll need pens and pencils and paper, and there’s no money. I have found that stealing bank pens can be fun. There are all kinds of pens nowadays, since the bailouts. They have more pens than they need, seeing as no one’s going in there to make a deposit. Pen on a metal chain? No problem with some wire cutters. Also, if you should happen to walk past a golf course while collecting aluminum cans on the side of the road, meander over to the carts and notice how those stubby little pencils are shoved onto the steering wheels. For paper it only takes a side trip to a hotel between noon and four in the afternoon. Pretend you know what you’re doing. Go down the halls, enter the open rooms when the cleaning person’s distracted, and find the stationary.

Or if you still have a job now, start stealing copy paper.

If you no longer have electricity, you might have to write only in the daylight hours. Or you could write your novel at the bank’s withdrawal/deposit slip kiosk, seeing as the only people who’ll distract you are other writers in search of pens. Swipe some of those slips of paper while you’re there in case the hotels run out of stationary.

Now jump ahead: The lights come back on, people get hired, and the aforementioned 98% of novel writers begin their books. You have all these handwritten manuscripts. As long as your fingers haven’t frozen off, it’s time to type them up, send them to needy publishing houses, and so on. You’re way ahead of everyone else.

And of course, during those moments when you wonder if it’s really worth it, you’ll pick up Pep Talks, Warnings, and Screeds for more of these motivational diatribes. Or if you have an irrational friend who continues to write, you’ll direct him or her to the book. I hope. So I can buy new shoes, to walk to the bank, to steal pens…

George Singleton’s the author of four collections of shorts stories (These People Are Us, The Half-Mammals of Dixie, Why Dogs Chase Cars, Drowning in Gruel); two novels, (Novel, Work Shirts for Madman); and a new book of advice called Pep Talks, Warnings, and Screeds. His stories have appeared in magazines such as The Atlantic Monthly, Harper’s, Playboy, Zoetrope, Glimmer Train, Georgia Review, and Southern Review, among others. He’s had work anthologized in nine editions of New Stories from the South. Singleton lives in Dacusville, South Carolina.