Same as it ever was

Me, on the steps of my old house

By Nicole Seitz

I can see how living with a writer may pose certain "challenges." A writer is either someone who IS writing, who HAS written, or who WILL write. Sometimes all those tenses happen at once. A writer who is writing is in her own blissful, maddening world and writing at all hours. A writer who has written is one who has to go out promoting, talking to clubs, talking the talk. A writer who will write is one who has yet to begin that next project, yet feels it looming. This is the creature I have become lately. A writer not yet writing is someone who is not sure what to do with herself, how to feel about herself or others. She is someone who is in the Twilight Zone of In Between.

A word of wisdom to writer spouses: Beware this kind of writer. Tread lightly. Your spouse may not feel/speak/act exactly like his/herself.

This week, I'm supposed to turn in my final line edits for my sixth novel. It's a great feeling. However, there's still that in between feeling--what should I write next, or rather, what will write ME next?

Oh, the In-between. My middle name is Transition lately. We're going through LOTS of changes around here. Anybody out there love change? Anyone? Anyone? I thought not.

As many of you know I started teaching art last year to 165 kids per week. But now that summer is here, it's just my two kids at home. It seems so quiet. I'm not sure what to do with all my time. Normally, I go a hundred miles an hour with no time to eat, sit, or use the facilities.

And more transition. Last week, we moved to a new house. Anyone know what moving is like? Being the daughter of a builder, I had only lived in houses that I'd built and knew intimately (spoiled, I know, but honest). I knew where all my furniture would go, the colors of the countertops and walls, I would envision it for months...but this time, we've moved into a house about 22 years old with about 30 days' notice. As far as I know, we're the third owners of the home, and I can see the touches of the owners who were here before me--the colors of the walls, the wear on the deck, the purple passion vines climbing the railing.

The transition is not exactly seamless.

We're having a hard time making our furniture fit some of the rooms, and although I am counting my blessings, selling and buying in this economy, I still find myself wrestling the grout in the bathroom, trying to make it sparkle again. I am covered in bruises from misjudging doorways and unpacking boxes. In this strange new place I find myself, I heard a song today by Talking Heads that summed up my existence--in between books, in between teaching, and in a different house. Who am I exactly? A writer in between books? A teacher in between teaching? A woman looking out into a strange yet lovely back yard? How did I get here?
You may find yourself living in a shotgun shack
You may find yourself in another part of the world
You may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile
You may find yourself in a beautiful house with a beautiful wife
You may ask yourself, well, how did I get here?

Letting the days go by, let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by, water flowing underground
Into the blue again after the money's gone
Once in a lifetime, water flowing underground

You may ask yourself, how do I work this?
You may ask yourself, what is that large automobile?
You may tell yourself, this is not my beautiful house
You may tell yourself, this is not my beautiful wife

Letting the days go by, let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by, water flowing underground
Into the blue again after the money's gone
Once in a lifetime, water flowing underground
Same as it ever was, same as it ever was, same as it ever was, same as it ever was
Same as it ever was, same as it ever was, same as it ever was, same as it ever was

Hearing this song made me realize I'm not the only one who feels this way. We all go through changes. Transition. About a month ago I read a book I got from an old company I worked for back in the 90s when it was about to go public, Who Moved My Cheese? Someone has definitely moved my cheese, but how I respond to it, my attitude, is going to make all the difference in the world. Even good stress is S-T-R-E-S-S. I thought I was better at handling change, but somewhere along the way (actually, the older I get), it seems change has started "handling" me.

So I'm fighting back.

In the midst of all this change, there is a big book in a box on our POD that says that God is the same as he was yesterday, today and tomorrow. So I firm my shoulders. Yes, I will make it here. In fact, I will love it here, but I have to make this place my own. I have to DO something.

Today I painted my daughter's room South Pacific blue. I also tackled her bathroom vanity, even replacing the old hinges and hardware with new chrome. I'm almost on a first-name basis with the people at Lowe's. I drilled new holes where they needed to be. I replaced dingy switch plates with crisp new white ones. I changed out pendant glass and light bulbs. I rearranged my bedroom furniture to take advantage of the morning light. And in all this DOing, I'm starting to feel more like myself.

Seeing as this is a writing blog, you should know what all this contemplation about change means to my writing. It's simple. After six novels, I do not know what I'll write next. I have know idea what God might choose to write through me next. I say that because honestly, I couldn't write a word without him. I never planned on being in this new home. I never planned on teaching art to kids, either. Come to think of it, I never planned on being a writer, but if I turn back to my compass, back to the one who has plans for me and knows the number of my days, nothing surprises Him. To Him, my life, my path, my plans are just the "same as it ever was", same as it ever was. In all this transition, that gives me great comfort. When things settle down and my furniture starts to fit the walls and the tile is so clean I can eat on it, I shall sit down at this computer and write again. I will make my fingers move. I will write again. A new novel. Real words on real paper. No more in between. Just thinking about it makes me excited.

I can't wait to see what's in store for me --and my readers--next.

So how about you? What change are you going though? A move? A new job? A new child? A new empty nest? When you find yourself in transition, instead of being paralyzed and looking deer-eyed, you must DO something to move out of transition and into...well, whatever is coming next. Don't just freeze up, DO something to make the in-between more bearable. You might just realize that God has you exactly where you're supposed to be at this precise moment in time. It's the same as it ever was.
------------------------------

Nicole Seitz is the author and cover illustrator of The Inheritance of Beauty, Saving Cicadas, A Hundred Years of Happiness, Trouble the Water, and The Spirit of Sweetgrass. The Inheritance of Beauty was a Books-a-Million Faithpoint Book Club Selection for May 2011. Nicole teaches art at a local private school in the Charleston, SC area, where she lives with her husband and two children. She is currently editing her sixth novel and contemplating a seventh. http://www.nicoleseitz.com/

Lovely Mates Being Dragged Through the Land of Story!

 After giving a little thought to what Writer Spouses might per chance go through on any given day, I thought I’d weigh in here on some fifteen years plus of this particular junket of my writing career. Somehow, beyond my wildest dreams, God blessed me with a manly, man husband who has championed every word I ever put to the page. And Championed is the right word. Capitol “C” makes it better. From my first novel written after hanging out/around/loving the theatre and seeing words come to life on the stage, I ventured to the solitary page.  I had someone seriously providing the wind  beneath my wings in the way of supporting the family and even taking the photo he crawled through a swamp to get for the perfect book cover (when the publisher was stumped on the artwork). Then he sent me to and fro to writer’s conferences when we didn’t have money for more than spaghetti eight days a week so that I might grow, make connections, meet an agent, further this thing we call getting the story to the written page. Years upon years of me writing around the clock, finally getting agented, and published. Then husband hearing that lament go from pre-published whining to post-published lamenting. Edits. Redlines. Proofing. Promotion? Who said anything about promotion? Why isn’t the book on the NY Times Bestseller list?  Why?Why?Why? Do we do this crazy, insane dance we do?

With piled up laundry, grocery lists partially written, mail unopened, cars not tuned - writers are staring into the distance and cooking up another story for the page. Potentially, with no contract or hope of one.  All the ups and downs, sideways turns, and crashing moments we have ridden out with our significant others! Aren't they countless at this point? Yes, my husband plays a huge part in my Acknowledgement pages, and the first novel was rightfully dedicated to him. But it's never enough to express how far, and wide that support has run. (And if you doubt me, check his Facebook page for Owen Hicks. :)  )

Here's the grand thing. Over the years my husband has been able to travel with me to writer's conferences and festivals far and wide. He has a few that have become his favorites. Great little town squares, awesome restaurants where I do believe we know owners by name. And in all of those great venues we have met other writer's mates along the trail. We've made friends like Raymond Atkins and his quick-witted, supportive, and incredibly beautiful funny wife, Marsha. And there's Eric Wilson and his wife with the angelic voice, Carolyn Rose.  JT Ellison and husband Randy. Ad Hudler and his wife,  Carol. The list goes on and on. 

So many great writers have these incredible people cheering them on. They're a tribe unto their own. Think Kathy Patrick and Jay Patrick, Shellie Rushing Tomlinson who made sure she talked to "her man" down on the farm everyday that we were on book tour together. (I feel like I know him so well and have never met him.) Patti Callahan Henry's husband Pat Henry who has welcomed me graciously. The list goes on and on. I can't pull them all to mind. Ronlyn Domingue's sweetie. Jamie Ford's incredible wife I met in Jefferson.  Janis Owen's great husband on the farm. Joshilyn Jackson's wild, and wonderful husband that she blogs about all the time. 

Can I offer a great big thank you to all of you. All those weary, wonderful souls who listen to us whine, complain, moan, lament and sometimes offer us a "There, there." and warm milk? Who celebrate with us till the cows come home over a new book deal! Who walk through this wonderful, weary thing we do with us hand in hand? Yes, it's a little all Bogey and Bacall but ain't life grand? Don't you want to light a few candles for that special person and say, "Hang on baby, the best is yet to come?" 

So the next time your soul mate darling drags a toe at attending a writerly event or joining you here and there on the road, show them this post, and all the ones previous and yet to come. I think a few writer spouses could benefit from knowing they are not alone on this journey living with big-hearted storytellers.

We are a richer, saner, wiser, healthier tribe because you are there. Thank you for watching the bank accounts, and having the backs of so many of these beautiful writers so that the world (me included) can read the words you've helped them find the space to create. 

God bless you!

River Jordan

River Jordan is the author of four published novels, a collection of Essay's, and a new work of non-fiction. All of which have been greatly influenced, inspired, and created with her husbands kind assurance. You may visit the author and her books at http://www.riverjordan.us The most excellent photograph for the cover of island mystery, The Gin Girl was taken by her husband who crawled through swamps and plucked orchidy flowers to capture the essence of the story. 

Carolyn Haines: The Reason I am a Lunatic

I’ve opted not to write about “living with a creative lunatic.” It wasn’t that I didn’t want to write about this topic, but I couldn’t get the dogs or cats or horses to dish any dirt on their feelings. Most of them have known only me - therefore they don’t know what it might be like to live with an accountant or a postal worker. And I am not about to tell them! What they would miss, of course, is the fact that I am home 24/7 to open cans of food, cook chicken and dumplings, rush out in the 90+ heat to hose them off, and open the door for endless dips in the pool while I sweat bullets at the keyboard.

They might laugh at me as I wander around the house looking for my right shoe that I took off somewhere and can’t find, or because I talk to my characters while I’m cooking for the dogs, or that I get out of bed in the wee hours to write a scene that wouldn’t come during the daylight.

I’m sure the cats find delight in the fact that I curse a blue streak when I write myself into a corner and have to delete a week of hard work. Cats find most human distress to be a source of great amusement. They know they will NEVER make a mistake. They eat, they sleep, they stretch—they are endlessly resourceful in getting their way. Mistakes are not part of a cat’s DNA.

The cats find it particularly amusing to do something when I am just at the point of genius. They sense that I am about to make a breakthrough in a particularly trying scene, when I’ve managed to unsnarl a plot point. That is the moment they rush in through the doggie door with a live bird in their mouth. Or better yet, a snake.

Oh joy! Whatever train of thought I had chugging painfully uphill is derailed and I can only think—SNAKE! So far, this has only occurred with nonpoisonous snakes and believe me, they are as traumatized as I am. I have discovered that if I can find a real paper sack and a broom, I can sweep them into the sack and then rush down to the woods and let them go. We both pant and sigh and go our separate ways. I return to the house to discover one or two of the cats—asleep in my chair. 

On the computer screen there are at least 1000 z’s where the cats have typed their disdain at my writing.

Once when I was on deadline, Poe, my lovely black cat at the time, brought in a field rat. It was almost as big as the cat and really, really pissed off. I had gotten up at 5 a.m. to write—I was on deadline!

By the time I got the rat into a plastic tub and put it in the truck and drove it to the woods, I was a quivering mass of gelatin. The writing day was shot.

Poe sashayed through the house, the tiniest little kitty smile on his face, as if to say, “Write? You think you’ll get to write today? Sure.” How can I top that?

And if the cats and dogs aren’t enough, the horses get into the act. Before the road was paved and before the suburbanites moved out to my neck of the woods, I lived on a dead-end dirt road. My horses are mostly happy to hang around the farm. I mean they’re waited on hand and foot, they’re fed twice a day with supplements and groomed and hosed and pampered and ridden minimally. But because I had writing that had to be done (again, on deadline) they decided to open the gate and take off down the driveway.

Trust me, there is nothing like the sound of hooves pounding to get my heart-rate up. Those horses don’t get in a hurry to do anything unless it’s naughty. I looked out my window and saw the whole herd flying down the driveway toward the road.
I jumped out of my chair, found shoes, and took off in hot pursuit. (Yes, it is true that Mississippi authors often write barefooted. But give me creds, I wasn’t pregnant.)

I got down to the end of the driveway just in time to see—to my horror—that a road crew was putting a large pipe through the middle of the road. They’d dug a huge trench and there were at least six men, neck deep, in the trench working in the middle of the road.

They saw the herd of horses racing toward them. I saw their faces. Their expressions were uniform. It was an “oh, s—t moment.” The horses got to the ditch in a dead heat. They leaped into the air, clearing the worker’s heads, the ditch, and the mound of dirt on the other side. They raced down to the end of the road, turned around and came back. The workers were horrified. I was paralyzed by fear.

The horses cleared ditch, dirt, and workers a second time and barreled toward the driveway. They passed me, turned down the drive and smoked it back to the barn. By the time I got home, they were grazing peacefully in the pasture.

I have no sympathy for animals that live with a “creative lunatic.” Rather than pity the animals who put up with my antics and insomnia, I believe your pity should be reserved for me. They have made me a lunatic. I rest my case.

____________________________________________________

A native of Mississippi, Carolyn Haines lives in Alabama on a farm with her dogs, horses, & cats. Bones of a Feather, the 11th book in her Sarah Booth Delaney series, releases on June 21.  Sign up for Carolyn Haines' Newsletter & feel free to visit her Website, along with her Facebook, Twitter, & Fan Page.

How Lucky She is to Have Me

By Man Martin

I often think of the brightness we writers shed upon the world. On our readers, of course, and on literature in general, but in particular, what a ray of sunshine we must be to our families, what a constant source of joy and delight! We little notice the light we bring into the world, of course, the sun can hardly be aware of its own glory, but day by day we share some small part of our luster with our nearest and dearest. How my wife must wake up every day grateful that I am hers!


Not that she doesn’t contribute in her own small way to our life together: true, she earns a living, monitors our investments, mentors our daughters, makes sure the dog’s heartworm medicine is up to date, the oil is changed in the cars, that we’ve paid our ad valorum taxes, the pantry is stocked, the bills are paid, the house is clean, the plants are watered, and dinner is ready.

But these light duties, plus maybe a dozen or so others that slip my mind, must float by as in a pleasant dream in the knowledge that Genius is at work in the very next room – or at least browsing the internet and getting ready to work at any second – and that when I sit down to eat the tasty meal she has prepared, the man dribbling gravy onto his new shirt and getting rice grains all stuck down in the couch cushions and the carpet, is no ordinary man, but a WRITER, and that he will be with her all the rest of her life. You wonder how she can contain her glee at the prospect of all those decades of shared meals before her.

The books and papers I leave scattered around the house – every room, even the bathroom, has its little pile – are constant reminders that while she has been negotiating to get the drywall repaired and balancing the checkbook, I’ve been hard at work making stuff up. Anyone can see that I am full of inspiration; just the other day Nancy remarked how full of it I was. She knows how I suffer for my art. Writing is Pain, she told me the other day, or at least I think it’s what she meant to say. It came out more like, “Writers are a pain.” I shared with her the gist of this blog, and asked her if being married to a writer wasn’t like sharing the house with a magnificent, beautifully plumaged bird. “Yes,” she agreed. “Exactly. Like living with a five-foot ten inch bird. A flightless one.” Odd, how unlovely my wife’s figures of speech sometimes are; I had in mind a gorgeous peacock, but she spoke as if describing some large, incontinent ostrich. I do not blame her, of course, she is not a Writer, as I am. I was on the brink of asking if she ever felt especially privileged to share a life with me, but I thought better of it. At the time she was busy scrubbing some gravy and rice I seemed to have trod into the carpet.

And the most wonderful and glorious thing of all, is we Writers never think to ask for thanks for all we do. All unknowing, we are beautiful wonderful things. We ask for one thing only: the opportunity to Work.

Which is exactly what I’m going to do after three more games of solitaire.



My new novel, Paradise Dogs, (Booklist calls it “simply brilliant” and Kirkus says it is “hilarious”) is available in bookstores and Amazon.com! Visit manmartin.blogspot.com to enter the STOOPID Contest and win a free copy!

ALMOST CRAZY by Jackie Lee Miles

I’m not sure if my husband has ever considered that I might be a lunatic. He’s a quiet, loving man who never criticizes (Am I blessed, or what?). Even so, he may have questioned my sanity while I was writing Cold Rock River. I’d discovered the slave narratives and stayed camped out at the library for eight months. You couldn’t take the material out. What else could I do but return there daily? When he got really hungry he’d come over and find me, telling me I must be exhausted and should come home. Such a sweet man—I’m not even a good cook, yet he searched me out. Months later I was done with my research and back to a normal daily existence, if you call writing until three a.m. in the morning normal.

Then we moved. Once all of the furniture was transported and the boxes I’d so carefully packed delivered, my husband decided to take the kids fishing so I could have some time to myself to sort everything out. Perfect! There’d be no laundry and no meals to cook while I unpacked at least one-hundred boxes and put our new home in order. Once they left, I drove over to the deli to pick up a sandwich for my lunch. I’d need nourishment before beginning the laborious job of unpacking.

That’s when the trouble started. I parked the car and proceeded to the front door, quickly questioning what kind of neighborhood we’d moved into. Someone had deposited a pile of black hoses on our front door step. It was a bright summer day. The sun beating down caused the air above the ground to waffle, making it hard for me to make out what I was seeing. I set my lunch sack down and reached for the hoses, thoroughly disgusted that with all I had to do—now I had trash to dispose of.

As I reached out for the mass, it instantly uncoiled itself and slithered down the stairs and around the side of the house! It was a black racer, totally harmless, but what did I care? It was a snake. And at least eight feet long, I was sure of it, and bigger around than a giant tomato. I unlocked the front door and ran into the house, leaving my lunch parked on the front step. It didn’t matter. I’d totally lost my appetite. I leaned against the now closed front door and realized I was shaking all over like I had some kind of palsy.

I eyed all of the boxes stacked up in the living room. The shaking would have to wait. There was work to do. Visions of the snake slithering around outside my house would have to wait, too. Thinking he might be tempted by my lunched sitting on the step outside the front door, I decided to retrieve it. I opened the door, peeked out, and not seeing anything, snatched my lunch bag back into the house where it sat for the rest of the day on the dining room table.

Unpacking was painstakingly slow. I kept thinking of the snake and how could I live in a place that might have many more of them scooting through the lush foliage that surrounded our house. That’s when it hit me. The reason the snake was on the porch in the first place was because he was waiting for his mate to re-appear. She’d found her way into our house sometime yesterday all the while the doors were open for the movers to bring things in. I was convinced of it! That slithering black monster’s mate was in my house, God only knew where. I stopped unpacking and climbed up on the back of the sofa, eyeing each corner of the room. Nothing moved. I leaned over and looked under the sofa. Nothing there either. That didn’t mean anything. A snake could hide anywhere.

I got on the phone and called Arrow. Once I explained I had a killer snake in my house, they connected me to their wildlife division. They said they’d be out in three days. I assured them I’d be dead by then. They agreed to send someone as quickly as possible. True to their word, within the hour, a technician showed up at my front door. I walked across the top of the furniture to make it there and let him in. Thankfully, he had a snake hook in his hand. He’d have the errant mate in no time and return her to her companion.

Three hours later he’d scoured every inch of my house including the lid to the washer, which made me realize I could never again wash clothes without peaking inside and recoiling lest a snake be curled up inside. But when the technician lifted the lid to toilet I lost it. How would I ever be able to sit on the john in peace again? I pictured a snake coiling up to bite my butt. I dissolved in hysterics.

The guy from Arrow eventually calmed me down and assured me there were no snakes in the house, which by now was a mess. He’d gone through every box in the room. He left, but not without leaving an invoice on the dining room table next to my lunch. It was for $500.00. Obviously, the wildlife division was expensive. I curled up on top of the back of the sofa and waited for my husband and children to return. There would be comfort in numbers, so maybe I’d get to sleep that night after all.

They never did understand my panic. According to them, snakes were part of the landscape and a black racer was one of the most harmless of all. My husband paid the bill without saying a word. But I was sure he was watching me a little more closely now. Maybe he did think I was a lunatic, but was just to kind to mention it. There was the time I called the police to report a prowler in the middle of the night, which turned out to be my laundry basket toppling off of the dryer where it had been too precariously placed. And then there was the time I was driving home from Cape Canaveral and ended up in Pensacola instead of Atlanta when I was daydreaming about my next book. And what about when I locked myself out of the house in my nightgown (Don’t ask.), and the entire fire department showed up. For sure, my husband probably did think I was a lunatic.

Right now I am once again camped out in front of my computer in my nightgown. But I never go outside while I’m wearing it, so I’m safe and totally sane. My husband will just have to trust that I am.

Jackie Lee Miles is the author of Roseflower Creek, Cold Rock River, Divorcing Dwayne and the recently released All That's True. Visit the website at http://www.jlmiles.com. Write the author at Jackie@jlmiles.com.

Have you read a good Acknowledgment lately?

By Judy Pace Christie

The first time my name was mentioned in a published book was in 1975. 

I, college student Judy Pace, was included in the acknowledgments of a hefty biography called "Audie Murphy, American Soldier" by Harold B. Simpson.

The author thanked me for my assistance at the Texas Collection at Baylor University -- where I worked for minimum wage to help pay for college. My scholarly contribution mostly involved hauling materials up and down from the archives.

I was so touched that I paid an outrageous $12.50 for a copy of the book. In a normal week (i.e, one when I hadn't seen my name in a book), that money would have bought three-for-a-dollar tacos or  ten-cent Dr Peppers and convenience store hot dogs.

I was hooked on acknowledgments.

While normal readers scan the first five pages of books, I look for the lists of friends, family members, pets, teachers, agents, publicists and editors it took to bring a book to life. 

You can tell a lot about writers' voices from acknowledgments, even if they're quite brief. It's a bit like a chat with authors, often telling you more about who they truly are than their bios.

As a novelist, I'm hungry to learn about what goes into great books -- and acknowledgments offer clues. Plus, they provide a potent reminder. No book, no matter how famous the author, is created in a vacuum.


When I embarked on the book-writing life a few years ago, I envisioned solitude with tons of time to stare out windows and debate passive verbs versus active.

Instead, I've encountered a life that revolves around community -- family, friends, spouses, children, grandchildren, readers, other writers. This is where ideas, energy, and the right words often come from.

While I savor quiet moments, quite a web of cheerleaders make it possible for me to write. 

Acknowledgments even contain themes: Great teachers. Mentors. Agents and editors who improve work and push for it to be published. Pals who listen to whining. Spouses who laugh at bad jokes. Children who are patient. Readers who spread the word and come back for more.

For fun on a hot summer day, pull a few books off your shelves and read their dedications and acknowledgments. Perhaps they'll remind you to run out and thank those who make it possible for you to put words on paper or those who helped make your favorite book come to life.

At-a-glance from my bookshelves:

• "To My Mother." That's the simple dedication for "The Catcher in the Rye," by J.D. Salinger. Many books, including my first, the nonfiction "Hurry Less Worry Less," are dedicated to moms. Most of us know if we have the good fortune to have a book published, we owe a lot to Mama. Wherever you are on the writing journey, give her a call and say thanks.

• Teachers of writing love to talk about the first line of "Moby Dick," by Herman Melville. This is the dedication for that classic: "In Token of My Admiration for His Genius, This Book Is Inscribed to Nathaniel Hawthorne." One of my great joys of becoming an author has been the help and friendship of other writers.

• Acknowledgments are friendly and affectionate -- and often fun and inspiring. Steve Martin's acknowledgments in "Pure Drivel" are as funny as his essays. In "Goodbye, Little Rock and Roller," Marshall Chapman starts her acknowledgments with simple phrases that remind me of a chat with her.

• Most writers owe much to teachers. Friend John Corey Whaley's debut novel, "Where Things Come Back," was just released. I loved the book (a great southern YA tale), and he dedicated it to a "teacher and friend." His acknowledgments make me want to have dinner with his parents and listen to musician Sufjan Stevens.

• I can never thank my husband, an eighth-grade science teacher, enough. He cooks for me, doesn't roll his eyes when he finds Post-it notes in our bed and laughs and cries at the right places in my manuscripts. I've had nine books published, and I mention him in each. Plus, I immediately sign the first copy of each book to him -- one small thanks for helping those pages appear.

Who did you dedicate your first book to? Who is your favorite book dedicated to? Please comment! Happy Summer!

About Judy Christie: Wrote my first novel when I turned 50. Longtime newspaper journalist. Appreciator of porch swings and primitive antiques. My fourth novel, "Rally 'Round Green," part of the Green series, will be out this summer. (It's dedicated to my good friend and fellow journalist Kathie Rowell.)  My first YA novel, "Wreath," will be released in October (dedicated to my 13-year-old niece, Mel, an avid reader). For more info, see www.judychristie.com or say hey on Facebook. Thanks!

My Husband, Future Books and the Highway Patrol

   By SUSAN REINHARDT

  Being married to a writer, one such as myself, is like being wed to one who may or may not bring home the bacon.

   While my new novel is in edits, “Chimes From a Cracked Southern Belle,” my husband waits patiently but will throw in hints.

  “Why don’t you start another humor book while this novel takes years to publish?”

   This is translates as, “I’m tired of paying all the bills by myself and lately you’ve written little more than Facebook drivel. Who ARE those people you chat with anyway? I think it’s an addiction.”

   What it really is, is a diversion. I’m gearing myself up for the daunting task of a new book, hence finding another agent. I’ve run through two and trying to find one is harder than getting the book on the pages.

   I’m scared to put my material out there right now. Just like a teenage boy too chicken to ask out the prom queen.

   As for writing, it has to come to me when the mood and muse strikes.

   Fortunately, I have a part-time job writing columns for a few newspapers. That money trickles in and pays a few bills, but I realize I’m not pulling my weight. And that weight is creeping up since I had a hysterectomy and bladder repair, what I call my “Old Lady Surgery.” Seems I was jogging one day and something nearly fell out for the squirrels to eat.

   Since the surgery, I’ve been unmotivated to write that next humor book.

   I know it’s not easy for my mate, even though he’s a lawyer. He winces every time he hands me a check, making me feel like a domestic hooker.

    Writers can be moody, melodramatic, whimsical, and down-right crazy. It’s all part of the “artist’s” personality. Pair that with a lawyer’s calm and common sense and you can see how my marriage could really benefit from the sale of a new book.

   He refuses to buy me a car, even though mine is 10 years old and falling apart. It took seven attempts for me to get a legal inspection. I finally found a country boy who likes big boobs, gave him a lipsticked smile, and boom! I was legal even though a few key parts of the car have gone missing.

  The good news for Mr. Husband, is that due to our kids’ schools, we live in separate towns. He has a house about 45 minutes from mine. The bad news is we have to pay two mortgages because our kids refuse to budge on moving to one or the other’s town.

   If you were to sit down with my lawyer husband and ask him what it’s like to be married to me, you’d get some mixed reviews. I’ll be the first to admit I’m not the easiest chick to hole up with. I tend to dramatize events, such as when a few weeks ago, I got pulled by the Highway Patrol who terrorized me on Mother’s Day.

     The trooper got a mighty fine taste of a writer’s ilk.

   “Ma’am, I have reason to believe you’re drunk,” he said.

   “Drunk? It’s 3 o’clock and a real lady never drinks before 5.”

   “You are slurring your words, your tag’s expired and so is your inspection.”

    His face turned all mottled and he reached for his Breathalyzer.

    “I’m slurring because I’m from the South and this is how we talk.”

    “Ma’am you’re either drunk or on something else.”

     I remembered a Xanex prescription in my pocket book, something I need because writers tend to have anxiety troubles.

   “Blow into this as hard as you can.”

    I blew like the wolf from the “Three Little Pigs.”

    Zero alcohol. He looked pissed.

    He gave me two tickets for the expired stuff and drove off in a cloud of bad-ass dust.

   Writers generally don’t fool with things like getting cars legal. We’re too busy pondering our next great bestseller.

   I told my husband I thought it his duty to maintain my vehicle.

   “Nope. You have to do it.”

   At least he “fixed” my tickets and I don’t have to go to court.

    So maybe the real story should be, “What it’s like living with a no nonsense lawyer?”

   For more of my work go to www.susanreinhardt.com