Dear Author: Please don't do this

by Karen Harrington



You’ve read the passage before.


As he walked into the room, as confident as George Clooney, and looking every bit like his twin brother, he winked at the blonde Paris Hilton look-a-like leaning against the bar.

Actually, my blog post could end right now. Way over here in Dallas, I can hear you retching with disgust at this bad writing. It is also lazy and lacks originality. There are no real descriptions, save confident and blonde.

So I ask you: Does trading on celebrity looks hinder the power of the story? Survey says: Yes. It weakens the writing and it can also date the story. (Of course, it’s hard to imagine a world without George Clooney, and who really wants to, but one day it will be so.)

Apparently, book bloggers are exposing this weak, celebrity short-hand when they find it – and they are finding it in the books of best-selling authors.

I offer into evidence a recent post over at the fab blog My Friend Amy, where the esteemed book blogger ranted about an author’s use of celebrity’s as a short-cut, or shorthand, for character description.

Dozens of her commenters agreed. Don’t do it, authors, they decried. It steals their own imaginative powers. It robs them of forming their own mental picture. It insults their own sensibilities.

For yours truly, I sometimes insert a famous name into the first draft of my manuscript with the intention of fleshing out the character later. Perhaps, after I’ve gotten to know him/her more, I will learn that he is a rabid pen clicker or that she has a thing for toying with her left earring when she’s nervous. But I do not keep the famous name in subsequent drafts for the same reasons these blog readers cited: it breaks the reader's flow from the story.

To be fair, I did trade on one famous name in my debut, Janeology. I used a pop-culture icon to draw a comparison between my protagonist’s looks and those of, Dave, the attorney defending him. My editor kept it because he said it not only worked as a comparison, but also revealed a bit about the self-image of Tom, my protagonist.

It reads:

I noticed a young female juror glance at Dave and smile. It probably didn’t hurt my defense that he was so good-looking. It’s not that I am unattractive. I’m tall, fit, green-eyed and still have all my hair. But cast us together in a movie and Dave Frontella is James Bond and I’m Man in Elevator #2.

So next time we write about how a handsome, self-assured character crosses the room with a sly grin on his face to meet a lithe woman who looks like she never met a bleach bottle she didn’t like – let’s just say that.

On second thought, let’s say something better than that. In fact, I challenge each of you to take this sentence and make it into something altogether unforgettable. The winner will receive my life-long esteem.

Proceed.

--

Karen Harrington is the author of the psychological suspense novel Janeology. Visit her daily reading and writing blog: http://www.scobberlotch.blogspot.com/

South Speak by Augusta Scattergood

Not long ago I read a rant by a writer, possibly a book reviewer himself, most likely on a blog advising us how to write. He was pontificating about overused words. Words he wanted banished from the pens of critics. As someone who often reviews books, I read it carefully. I can’t remember much about that list except that one of my favorite words showed up as persona non grata: Quirky. I love quirky books and I love the sound of that word. Maybe it’s because so many characters in Southern novels are downright quirky.

So when I read Southern funny guy Roy Blount Jr.’s new book, ALPHABET JUICE, I glommed right onto his take on quirky. He suspects the word was born following the “union of ‘quick’ and something more pejorative, perhaps ‘jerk.’” Fascinating? Definitely.

If you happen to be a word junky like I am.

Blount calls himself a hyperlexic. Now that’s something to aspire to. The book’s subtitle says it all: The Energies, Gists, and Spirits of Letters, Words, and Combinations Thereof: Their Roots, Bones, Innards, Pits, Pips, and Secret Parts, Tinctures, Tonics, and Essences; With Examples of Their Usage Foul and Savory.

Wow.

Sometimes as a writer, I linger too long over words, worrying that I haven’t followed the advice of Mark Twain in a quote attributed to him: The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug.

Now I’ve seen lightning (In fact, I’m told I live in the lighting capital of the country. A place that named its hockey team the Tampa Bay Lightning) and I love lightning bugs. And, believe me, there’s a big big difference.

But what about mosey, a good ole’ southern word if there ever was one, and stroll? How about saunter? How do we choose? We’d better choose carefully, even if the difference isn’t as pronounced as those lightning bugs.

Southern writers are at a word advantage, I’m sure of it. We just have more words to tell you what we want to say. My friend Beth Jacks maintains a website at USADeepSouth.com. There you’ll find what she calls Southern Speak, an exhaustive list of southern words and phrases her readers tap into, add to and comment on. Words long gone from most tongues, like corporosity and nary. Fixing to (that one’s not so long gone where I come from!). Swaney. And a whole host of food words nobody outside the South might recognize, including my favorite road food: Nabs (We Southerners know that’s not somebody grabbing you).

My own list of Southern Speak is endless, even after I’ve lived in the north most of my grown-up life. Words swirl around me like those Sunday dinner-time stories of my childhood. Maybe that’s why I’m partial to something else Roy Blount wrote:

"My goal in life is to make some tiny headway toward lifting from Southerners some tiny bit of the burden of having to prove [to Northerners] that we are being tongue-in-cheek."

It’s taken me a while, but I’ve learned to say what I mean, what I want to say anyhow, even when it flies right over the heads of those Yankees. Thank you, Roy Blount, for making me appreciate the spirit and energy of the words I grew up loving.



Augusta Scattergood is a contributing writer for Skirt! Magazine and Delta Magazine. Her essays and book reviews have appeared in the Christian Science Monitor, the St. Petersburg Times, and Mississippi Magazine as well as the USADeepsouth and Children’s Literature websites. She’s hard at work on two middle-grade kids’ books with her critique groups who, sadly, do not serve snickerdoodles.
Visit her blog at http://www.ascattergood.blogspot.com/

On Ending Well

By Nicole Seitz

Every cool morning after the kids are strapped in my husband's truck and we've said our goodbyes and I love yous, I do a little something extra. I exhale warm breath on the cold window and use my finger to draw something for the kids to see as they're pulling out of the driveway to go to school. The first day I did it, I drew a heart. It instantly became a hit and was expected every day. Then, I had to draw on BOTH passenger windows. Next, I came up with different images: a cat, a happy face, a house. Now, the kids request things. This morning, my son asked for an airplane and my daughter, a bird. They may not have been the best or most recognizable images, but I did my best and I watched as they smiled and my son traced the airplane with his forefinger from the other side of the glass. This little tradition of ours has become quite an important part of our morning routine. As long as it's cool weather, these window paintings will keep a-comin'.

So I was thinking about how important they are, these images, these last impressions I leave with my family. You must understand how hectic things are for the thirty minutes leading up to the backing out of the drive. There are proddings to finish breakfast. Warnings to put down that toy. Pleadings to come upstairs and get dressed. Some days there is hair pulling (mine), heart racing, "We're late, we're late!" moments. So much commotion for four humans to make! And then...once the truck doors are shut and the children dressed and bundled and strapped, there is a moment of quiet as my finger goes to glass and a last impression is created between mother and children...and husband. I love the smiles. I love the oohs and aahs. But I love my family most of all. I don't want them to remember the running around and rushing that morning. It's so important that they savor that last impression from home to carry with them to the next place.

I think book endings are very much the same way. We, as writers, create this cacophony of words and images, scenes, commotion, turmoil, heartbreak, heart-leaping across hundreds of pages...and then...the ending. An ending to a novel is so powerful, it cannot be underestimated. Have you ever loved reading a book and had the ending fall flat? How did you feel about the book afterward? You remember that slight disappointment at the end, at least, I do. And then, we've all read a book that's going along fine, we're getting into it, and by the end, WOW! what a zinger. I did NOT see THAT coming. How does the ending color the book? It can make or break it. The ending is your final goodbye, that thing that you leave. What do you like to draw for your readers?

I have to admit, I'm in the school of surprise endings. I love when I don't see it coming. I'm a savvy reader, and this goes for movies too. PLEASE don't let me guess correctly who-dunnit. Please don't let me peg from the opening scenes who the bad guy is, what the secret is. I love endings. I LOVE my readers. I want my readers--no matter what they've gone through to get there to the end of my books--to be satisfied, sometimes surprised, and definitely entertained. It is the end that we, as writers, give our readers as that lasting image, drawn with warm breath on a foggy window. The details of the book will fade away mighty fast, but that faint image of a smiley face or awkwardly drawn birdie or great big warm heart will remain.

Here's another thing I've noticed about the window images and novel endings: They've got to be fairly quick and simple. No Sistine Chapel ceilings here. Why? Because the fog on the glass only lasts for so long. You've got to get that image drawn the best you can in the short amount of time you have. Otherwise the fog will disappear and you're left with a half-drawn something-or-other that could be a cat or an airplane--we can't tell. And let me tell you, my son will turn to my daughter's window if he can't figure out what I've drawn for him. Kids are like that. Kids, and readers--we all love a good ending that we can trace with our finger from the other side of the glass and take with us wherever we happen to go next. A great ending is the one thing that lasts and lasts.

--------

Nicole Seitz is the author of Trouble the Water, The Spirit of Sweetgrass, and coming in March, A Hundred Years of Happiness. She also paints the covers for her novels. Visit her website at www.nicoleseitz.com to watch book trailers, look at artwork, and learn more.


Image courtesy of Friends of Randolph Library and Circa Gallery, Asheboro, NC.

Economics: Buying from the Industry You Want to See Survive

Or ... Title #2

How to Give an Entire World as a Present on a Shoe-string Budget

My 11-year-old son's Christmas list includes this item: Lobster (not for eating). My 8-year-old son wants a nerf gun. He knows I'm against guns so he pronounces it "NERF (gun)." My 13-year-old daughter wants nothing. She knows there's an economic crisis, and believes in cutting back instead of blind consumerism -- she's political. My one-year-old wants a vacuum cleaner.

None of them have asked for books, because they know that books are a given.

This year I'm getting books for every single person on my list.

Why?

Because in times that are this tough, I worry not about individual companies as much as I do entire industries. I want to look back on what I bought this year and see those items as a reflection of what I value in the world. I value books.

Now, as a writer, this might be seen as selfish. But if I weren't a writer, I'd still be a reader. I'd still want to handpick books for the people I love based on their interests, as a way of telling them that I've been listening. I'd still want to boost the imaginations of kids. I'd still want to give the gift of words, images, entire worlds.

How to give an entire world on a shoestring budget?

Books.

Join me.


Julianna Baggott is the author of fourteen books across three genres. Visit her at: http://www.juliannabaggott.com/ for an overview, http://www.theanybodies.com/ to get info on her books for kids, and http://www.bridgetasher.com/ for news on her latest book, MY HUSBAND'S SWEETHEARTS. To get a FREE COPY of her upcoming book for kids THE PRINCE OF FENWAY PARK, visit http://www.princeoffenwaypark.com/. And, if looking for an opportunity to get free books to underprivileged kids in the state of Florida, go to the nonprofit she co-founded: http://www.booksindeed.org/.

You Say It’s Your Birthday
It’s my birthday too, Yeah!

by Sarah R. Shaber



Today is my birthday. I am in my late youth. To be more specific, the four crooners you see singing were my contemporaries. I didn’t have my driver’s license when they first visited the States, but in all other aspects I was a fully developed human being.

What is it about birthdays, anyway? Why is a birthday so fraught with symbolism, celebration, and sometimes anxiety?
It’s just another day of the year. You’re pretty much the same person on your birthday as you were the day before.

Except on that first birthday, the day before you were born you were nothing and nobody. You were zero. On your birthday you became one day old. Ever listen to little kids talk about their birthdays? “I’m four years and three months.” “My birthday is in 17 days.” “I was born in the morning, but my party’s going to be in the afternoon.” Your birthday is an absolute. It was the day you became someone. Rather than no one. Somebody instead of nobody.

Non-existing is an ancient, primitive human fear. Being here is vastly preferable to not being here. This is why we cling to life so tenaciously, no matter how ugly life gets. It’s why mortality sucks. We want to stay right here with our loved ones, go to all the new George Clooney movies, see our children and grandchildren grow up, eat at our favorite restaurants, live long enough to find out if there is alien life on other planets. We don’t want to miss anything cool. Even if we have to suffer through root canals, colonoscopies, Sarah Palin, or recession on our journey. Life is still better than not-life. Even people who are deeply religious want to take the last train out. So we celebrate each and every birthday. Thank goodness I’m still here!

What, you might ask, does this have to do with writing, in my case, crime fiction. Everything. Murder is the most heinous of criminal offenses. It has no statute of limitations. Murder case files are never closed. Even anonymous murder victims, some found years after the crime, are investigated with the same zeal as if they were discovered yesterday. It’s said that detectives never forget the cases they couldn’t solve.

Enter the novelist and the reader. The murder victim in a crime novel represents any person who dies before his or her time. We are all anxious about the premature death, the car out of control, the suspicious dark spot on our body, arteries filling up with gunk. Some of us will fall to the wayside before our threescore and ten.

The crime writer exploits this anxiety by allowing us to deal with the unfairness of early death and its aftermath in an entertaining way—reading a mystery novel. We’re permitted to experience the whole horror of death—the violence, the grieving, the questions, the ramifications of someone becoming nobody again. Never having another birthday. Using fictional characters, of course. No one we know personally.

Then there’s the detective. Our hero. He or she tracks down the killer, justice is done, and the reader breathes a sigh of relief. The world continues to rotate. Without the victim, of course, but the reader still feels comforted by the predictability of the form. The writer is happy if she has communicated something she feels is important about life, or if she has exorcised her own demons. And justice somehow lessons the sting of death.

Enough heavy philosophizing. A large piece of double chocolate cake awaits me!

Dear Southern Authors and our readership!
Yes, this is a Christmas letter to all of you! Ever since I have made my life an open book with the publication of my life story in books, “The Pulpwood Queens’ Tiara Wearing, Book Sharing Guide to Life”, I have vowed to tell only the truth and nothing but the truth. After all it’s like that old adage, “The truth shall set you free!” So let me begin with what prompted me to write a Christmas letter.
I was decorating the last of the five Christmas trees in my house, upstairs in what we call our movie room, our other favorite pastime in the Patrick family besides books. I was cross-legged sitting half on the side table and arm of my chair when one 52 year old leg sprung loose and I was suddenly falling backwards towards the floor. My life did not quite flash before my eyes but I knew the landing was not going to be pretty. It was as if I was falling in slow motion, seriously. I turned to try to break by fall by putting down my hand but not fast enough. The back of my head hit the corner of my inch thick glass coffee table and I landed with a thud. The shock of pain hit my head and hand and I began wailing. As my high school old daughter, Madeleine, ran up the stairs to see what happened, I felt my head to see if a chunk wasn’t missing or if I was bleeding. Nope. My head was still intact and the coffee table was not broken. A miracle indeed as this past year of book release, book tour, and more has fluffed me up to marshmallow stage. To put it nicely, I have become quite fluffy. My weight alone in hitting that table should have caused considerable damage to my head and to my table.
Now I hurt, my head was throbbing; my arm seemed a little out of whack, as my wrist. I checked to see but nothing was broke so I counted my blessings that I am addicted to milk, strong bones my friends. I’m sobbing by now and Madeleine is asking me what happened, what happened. I am trying to explain and she’s laughing as she goes, “Momma are you alright?” As I crawled my way back up to a sitting position, I told her to quit laughing and get me some ice. A goose egg the size of a lemon was popping up on my head. She laughed all the way down the stairs.
First of all, what made that event so funny? Beats me but one thing I know, it could have been a whole lot worse, tragic actually. I could have died. Okay, so maybe that’s a tad bit melodramatic but as I write this, that glass coffee table still gives me the shivers, thus this Christmas letter.
Ever since my book was published this past January, I have had this sinking feeling that I better get my life down on paper. Weird premonition, whatever. I know I have a bunch to say, so let me begin.
Right after the New Year, I hit the road in a Texas Cadillac, (Excursion provided by my generous publisher), with four of my Pulpwood Queens in tow. We traveled ten states through the mid-south and south, 27 stops with sometimes eight events a day for my book tour. I mean how many authors get to go on book tour with their bestest friends, make that paid vacation with their bestest friends. I am counting my blessings having Grand Central Publishing as my publisher. We had a blast as I was doing BIG HAIR Makeovers at all the book store stops! What fun! Our Pulpwood Queen Girlfriend Weekend was right smack dab in the middle of book tour and what was I thinking. It’s all a blur now but a happy blur!
Home at last and both my co-workers bailed out on me while I was gone. Alone again working at my Hair Salon/Book Store, Beauty and the Book but thankfully, many of you all came to visit me plus tons of Red Hatters, book clubs, and women having Girlfriend Weekends to my now hometown of Jefferson, Texas.
This past year I tried to prepare myself for my oldest daughter leaving for University of Texas at Tyler. I did not prepare myself well enough because I spent most of the early fall in crying jags missing my Lainie. She adjusted very well to the college experience, so well, she called us bright and early one Sunday morning to tell her father, sister, and I, if we wanted to see her bail out of an airplane at 10,000 feet to get our booties over to the Gladewater airport a.s.a.p. I have never dressed so fast and in fact, watched all ten of her college Outdoor Adventure Club members jump out of planes that day. My heart was literally in my hands and going ninety miles an hour praying as she jumped, parachuted, and leisurely drifted down to land successfully on sold ground. God is watching over for me and mine for sure my friends. And did I mention the tattoo?
Oh yes, my daughters just a couple weeks ago came to me to tell me something. I panicked. What’s up? Madeleine explains, “Don’t get mad Momma, but Lainie got a tattoo!” I flashed back to the sorority girl who pierced my ears with a needle and potato when I was working for my aunt at the Stillwater Country Club, one college summer and all of us waitresses were on break. My parents threw a major hissy fit and told me I had maimed my body for life. Only white trash got their ears pierced, what was I thinking? As I asked to see where she got the tattoo, praying to God it was NOT above her bootie crack or on a boob, she informed me it was on the instep of her foot. Wow, that had to hurt, I was thinking as I inquired, “What is the tattoo?” She showed me and all spelled out in gothic writing was, “THE THIRTY”. Aha, The Thirty was a heavy metal rock band, a Christian heavy metal rock band of which the members were also my daughter’s best friends. “Why Lainie, why? What if the band breaks up and for gosh sakes, you’re going to be a doctor! With a TATTOO!” Now I’m praying there won’t be any more, or piercings!
Then if the skydiving, tattoo wasn’t enough, my husband who I swear has been going through midlife crisis the past ten years, decides after watching Lainie skydive, that he’ll take back up getting his pilot’s license. Thanksgiving morning he was gone at the crack of dawn off flying. It was bad enough to have one bird leave the nest now the Jaybird was off flying into the wild blue yonder. What gives?
Did I mention my life with my youngest Madeleine? This past year she has been the Junior Varsity Mascot, Pup Pup, a Bulldog character. I have attended more football games and Pep Rallies than I care to mention and by somebody who hates football. Did I also mention we made the District Playoff’s so more hauling Madeleine and that big grey Bulldog costume around East Texas? Did I also mention it has been freezing cold?
By the last game, I finally got into it and we lost. I was screaming at the top of my lungs, “Blood makes the grass grow, KILL, KILL, KILL!” Again God was watching out for me because I was getting way too into the violence of that game.
Madeleine and I moved on. Screaming and crying, “NO, NO, NO, I will not take you and your girlfriends to the midnight showing of TWILIGHT! Over my dead body, Madeleine, for goodness, it’s a school night. I desperately need my beauty sleep. NO WAY!” 7:30 p.m. that evening we arrived at Marshall Cinema to stand in line for the twenty tickets left for the midnight showing. I was number nine.
I was going to hate this movie, after all, it was about vampires, and I hated all those vampire movies from the 70’s when I was in high school. I could remember, disgustingly, how the last vampire film I watched had a male vampire chasing another male vampire. They were just too pretty, you know what I mean. And I left in disgust after a girl vampire bit another girl vampire on the boob. I mean what was that all about?
To make matters worse, all of us parents from Jefferson and our teenage daughters had to sit on the front row. Talk about a neck crook. As the film, began I was all ready and waiting to hate this film then something happened. I was mesmerized by the characters and the story. I walked out in a daze as all the girls were talking about how they had to come back and see it again. All I knew was I had to read the books. Madeleine and I proceeded to read, (she was already almost finished on book one), all four of the books in one week. We bonded over Stephanie Meyer. I will be forever indebted for her giving me a common ground with my teenage daughter who nothing I do normally seems to please her. We have spent hours talking about the books, the characters, and both think that the Edward character is just about the finest thing to ever walk this planet besides Johnny Depp.
Somehow I have managed to survive this entire year. I have lived to tell the tale and now hard at work on not one but two books. I am alternating between another non-fiction book, “The Pulpwood Queens’ Guide to Reading for a Higher Purpose” and my first novel called “Eureka!” As I have said before, I have a lot to say and feel like time is NOT on my side. Pray for me!
Did I also mention this past year I have done the coolest thing I have ever done, I am teaching a life writing class at the homeless shelter, Newgate Mission in Longview, Texas? I have initiated as President of the Jefferson Rotary Club, the Dolly Parton Imagination Library program here in Marion County which provides books to new borns until they start school, a book a month. I also now have over 200 chapters of The Pulpwood Queens up and running from Anchorage, Alaska, to the Jersey shore, from Florida to California and ever where in between and not. I also have members and chapters in eight foreign countries with a chapter soon in works, in Halifax, Nova Scotia.
My life has been blessed from reading books. As I traverse this country this next year speaking to library associations. Friends of Library Association, Rotary Clubs, (I’m President here), churches and more, don’t think I let everybody know that it’s all because I have been blessed because I am a reader. I may never be rich, moneywise, in my lifetime, but I am enriched because of my family, friends, authors, and books. Okay, this Christmas letter I was going to work in all the skeletons in my closet but that door is going to remain closed. Who has the time to read a 10,000 page book! Nobody can be as up as me to not have their down times too! But I refuse to let my dysfunction get in the way focusing on the FUN in my life. Life is fun and even funner, is that a word, if you become a real reader!
Thanks for inviting me into this southern author book family. Again God has blessed me BIG TIME!
May you all have a Merry Christmas and that may be politically incorrect but so am I. I pray to God, I salute our flag, and I am proud to be a Christian! Thank God we live in America where we are free to make our own choices. May you also make the right choices and choose the right path. I assure you I have stumbled many, many times, but always turn to God, who is leading my way!
Now on to truly celebrating Jesus birth and decorating my shop for Christmas! I’m only doing one tree and standing up the entire time, so no worries. Pray for me anyway!
Tiara wearing and Book sharing,
Kathy L. Patrick
Founder of the Pulpwood Queens Book Club
http://www.beautyandthebook.com/
www.pulpwoodqueen.com

P.S. The blonde is my oldest daughter, Helaina, and the brunette is my youngest Madeleine with her peeps!

TALKING TURKEY

Thursday morning I climbed out of bed before dawn and headed to the kitchen. I believe it's a great advantage to be an early riser on Thanksgiving. The side dishes were finished and the turkey was roasting in the oven before my husband and daughter awoke. Creating the Thanksgiving feast was a breeze.

It wasn't always that way.

Twenty-three years ago, I was a newlywed, eager to prove to my family that I was capable of cooking a holiday meal. I felt confident about making the three-bean casserole, stuffing (in a box), and sweet potatoes with marshmallow topping. The problem was the turkey. I'd never attempted to cook one. This was the bird that graced the dining table in every weepy holiday commercial. Golden crisp on the outside. Moist and tender on the inside. I didn't want to blow it.

I sought advice from everyone. "Cooking a turkey is easy," said one friend, "just don't buy a Butterball." She then proceeded to tell me how I should smear two sticks of butter over the body. "Make sure to leave some for the inside of the cavity," she added.

The what???

It sounded so complicated so I called my mom. "It's easy. I don't know why people make such a big deal about it. Just buy a Butterball."

I heard other methods--cooking it overnight at a low temperature, and someone even swore it was better to cook the turkey breast-side down. "Trust me. You'll never do it any other way," they said.

Apparently I was not the only frustrated one. I hear there is a turkey hot-line, twenty-four hours of roasting advice offered by an expert. That must be some job. At least they had some funny stories to tell around their holiday table. I can just hear them. "Then there was the one who thought she'd give the turkey a golden glaze by coating it with sugar and torching it. She had to throw it in the fireplace and start over!"

Eventually I learned how to roast a turkey my way. It begins with ignoring the instructions on the label that advises allowing two days for thawing in the refrigerator. I don't know about you, but my turkeys take five to six days. Most years, my turkey has turned out pretty decent. It just took a few Thanksgivings to build my confidence and rely on my own instincts.

Learning to roast a turkey is not unlike my writing career. Early on, I received tons of advice. "Don't write in first person," one of my creative writing teachers said.

"Why?" I asked, mainly because all of my first stories came to me from that point of view.

Annoyed, she said, "New York looks at it as amateurish."

For awhile, I struggled to write in third person. It sounded forced, but I didn't want New York to think I was an idiot.

"You overuse the word look," said a critique partner. Never mind that she tended to be fond of gaze. But what did I know? She'd been writing for a few years. My characters started to gaze at the green meadows.

"If you want to write for children, leave out the parents." This bit of info came from a published writer. "Make them orphans or just keep them out of the story."

I tried to be obedient. And for awhile, I was. But the joy left the process. Then one day a story came to me, a story in first person. The main character lived with adults. She liked to look at things. I continued to listen to what others told me about my story. I considered all the advice I received from editors in rejection letters. Sometimes I applied it. Sometimes I did not. I'd learned to trust my own gut. After all, it was my story. Those were my characters. If it sold, my name would be on the book.

Three and a half years later, it did sell. Once my editor told me, "Kimberly, the thing I like about working with you is that you always consider what I have to say about the manuscript, but ultimately you do what you think is right." Some writers are born with that instinct. I'm not one of them. I came to it eventually, leaving fear behind, relying on my gut and instincts.

Not unlike roasting a turkey.

Kimberly Willis Holt's first book, My Louisiana Sky, was published ten years ago. Since then, she's written a few more and even roasted a few turkeys.