Tag Archives: The Author’s Blog

We’re All Two Halves of the Same Cookie

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Today, we’re hosting an eclectic artist and author, Carol McClain, who is also secretary of the Author’s Guild of Tennessee.  She’s a transplant from New York, but more on that later.  She has published five books and currently does a little blogging.  Welcome Carol McClain and read a little sage wisdom gained from her time in New York and her time in Tennessee.

 

You’ve seen black and white cookies, those giant confections whose frosting is equally divided between “chocolate” and “vanilla.”

As a child, I loved them. Being female, and a moody one at that, I always claimed the chocolate side when my mother bought them. (We had to share).

As an adult, I one day discovered a display of them. I indulged and bought one.

I nibbled the chocolate side—no need to share as I paid my grown-up money for it. I discerned no chocolate flavor. I chomped into the vanilla side. It tasted like the same—maybe with a slight variation. Both sides of the black and white cookie could’ve been one color.

One day, after several years of debating, my husband and I decided to move from northern New York to the warmer climes of East Tennessee. A writing friend became excited. “Write one of your funny books about the differences between the North and South.”

As I packed for my move, I envisioned the novel. With the animosity between the North and South, with geopolitical and social differences, I’d have an hysterical story.

We moved to Campbell County in the heart of the Cumberland Mountains and discovered, like the black and white cookies, with only slight variations, no differences existed.

There went my book idea.

Still, my friend nagged while I settled in.

Cornbread, a hill dialect, a culture of Christianity as opposed to a culture of agnosticism were about the only variations I found. It confirmed something I believed.

Liberalism mimics conservativism. It, too, excludes things it doesn’t believe in. Blacks/whites, Russians (my heritage)/Anglo Saxons, Baptists/Evangelicals, gay/straight, we all vary outwardly like the icing on the pastry, but as Mandissa sings, “We all bleed the same.”

In the end, I found my book. A New York Yankee on Stinking Creek explores the difference between the North and the South. And nothing’s as it appears, and the extremes of anything err.

We are human. We are sinners. We need redemption. We’re two halves of a black and white cookie.

Carol enjoys running, jazz, stained glass and, of course, writing.  She is the President of ACFW Knoxville.  The world in East Tennessee intrigues her from the friendly neighbors to the beautiful hiking trails and the myriad wildlife.

NOTHING GOOD COMES FROM STINKING CREEK

Alone, again, after the death of her fiancé, abstract artist Kiara Rafferty finds herself on Stinking Creek, Tennessee. She wants out of this hillbilly backwater, where hicks speak an unknown language masquerading as English.  Isolated, if she doesn’t count the snakes and termites infesting her cabin, only a one-way ticket home to Manhattan would solve her problems.

Alone in a demanding crowd, Delia Mae McGuffrey lives for God, her husband, her family, and the congregation of her husband’s church. Stifled by rules, this pastor’s wife walks a fine line of perfection, trying to please them all. Now an atheist Yankee, who moved in across the road, needs her, too.

Two women.Two problems. Each holds the key to the other’s freedom.

A New York Yankee on Stinking Creek, on Amazon in print and digital at  https://tinyurl.com/y2pxjt4a

I didn’t die, but . . .

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I know it’s been awhile since I last wrote.  But, I didn’t die.  Some of the trees did! We took a trip out west and when we got back to Texas, well … we couldn’t get home – at least not quickly.

That was just the start.  Apparently there had been an incredible amount of rain.  And then strong, erratic winds.  Many live trees were toppled, simply uprooted. These ranged from 100-foot tall pines to old oak trees.

When I cut through one of the oak trees and counted the rings, it was about 60 years old.

I still don’t know exactly how many huge trees came down – more than I have managed to clean up so far.  But, I’ve taken on the role of lumberjack. And not being Paul Bunyon, it’s taking me awhile. Good exercise.  Next week, I’m back on the computer, at least for a few hours.  I feel another book wanting to hit the pages.

Thanks for putting up with my rambling. I’ll stop – and go crank up the chainsaw.

jim

 

The Glamorous Life of a Writer

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Today, writer and international speaker Jennifer Slattery talks about the glamorous life of a writer.  It’s a fun read and maybe we can see ourselves in the title role.  Jennifer has published six contemporary novels, maintains a devotional blog, and works on several fronts to help women realize their true worth.  But now, here is that glamorous life.

Whoever writes authors into movies have never met any in real life. At least, they’ve never met this writer.

Considering all my mishaps, I should probably write romcom.

A few summers ago, threw away my favorite black pair, fully intending to replace them. Once I finished that story, then that article, then that next blog post …

Mid-August rolled around, and I began packing for what I knew would be a whirlwind trip–a conference where I’d be speaking and teaching three classes, followed by a book signing, with a day and a half home before heading to an author event followed by another conference.

So there I was, planning what to wear and … no black flats, and no time to hit the mall. Luckily (ha!) our daughter, who was still living with us at the time, owned a really cute pair of pumps, so I tossed them in my suitcase, closed it up, and was good to go.

Eh …

Saturday rolled around, the last day of the conference and the day of my book signing. By this point, I was also down to one outfit–the one needing those black pumps. So, on they went.

And I quickly remembered how long it’d been since I’d worn heels. And that my daughter’s feet are wider than mine. So here I am, trying to look all professional while wobbling around, about ready to topple over, in my daughter’s much too high heels. To make things worse, every third step one of my shoes actually slipped off, nearly sending me flat on my face.

All while I was trying to act all bookishly professional–and everyone I encounter, including the bookstore owner hosting me, is doing there best not to laugh out loud.

Grown woman, acting like a teenager in her first pair of heels. Oy.

I wish I could say wardrobe malfunctions during book signings are rare events, but …

I was on another trip, this time in Des Moines. Once again, it was a whirlwind weekend with back-to-back speaking engagements followed by a signing. By my last event, I was down to my last outfit–the one I was wearing. The others were not so neatly packed in my suitcase in the trunk. Add to this the fact that it was freezing out–not sure capris and strappy sandals were a great idea.

With goosebumps exploding across my arms and my lips turning a deep shade of blue despite my heavily applied lipgloss, I decided to buy some coffee.

Did I mention I was wearing white capris? You know where this is going, don’t you? I experienced a momentary rush of warmth, followed by a rush of panic.

A writer’s life. Isn’t it glamorous?

Do you have any wardrobe fails to share? It would make me feel better. Seriously. 😉

Just add a comment below and tell us your memorable wardrobe …  events.

Jennifer ‘ latest book is Restoring Her Faith.  Here’s a brief blurb on it.

She left belief behind…Yet this family could change her mind.

With two boys to raise, a fledgling contracting business to run and a family ranch to keep afloat, widower Drake Owens finds his hands aren’t just full they’re overflowing. When Faith Nichols is hired to help him renovate the church, he’s drawn to the beautiful artist, but he can’t fall for a woman who isn’t a believer. Can love restore her faith and his heart?

You can find Restorying Her Faith by clicking here HERE .

 

The Story Behind the Story

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This week’s guest blogger is June Foster, an award-winning author who began her writing career in an RV roaming around the USA with her husband, Joe. She brags about visiting a location before it becomes the setting in her next contemporary romance or romantic suspense. To date, June has 17 novels published.

Dreams Deferred is inspired by the true-to-life story of my great grandfather and great grandmother. I chose to set it in contemporary times. Nevertheless, I borrowed many of the story elements from the true story.

Frances Mathew Halbedl grew up in the European Austrian Empire and followed tradition in which the oldest son became a priest in his family’s Catholic faith. After being ordained in Moravia, he immigrated to the United States in 1866 to serve in a parish in the state of Louisiana.

My aunt and mother always told the story of how one Sunday while saying mass, he spotted a young teen, much younger than my Mary Louise. He waited several years for her to grow up then stepped down from the priesthood to marry her. I wish I knew some of those rich details of their courtship, but since I don’t, I fictionalized their romance.

They later moved to San Antonio, Texas, and had five children, three girls and two boys—Ida, Mamie, Alice, Roy, and Clifton, who was my grandfather. Just for fun in one scene, I imagined that Matt had a dream he was riding in a car with Mary Louise and the three youngest kids. In my story, the dream helped him realize how much he loved Mary Louise.

Mathew taught music both in the public school and privately. Later he became the first principal of a high school in San Antonio. In December of 2005, my husband and I visited San Antonio and looked up Matthew and Mary Louise’s house. The large, two-story home is still there on Roseborough Drive. We weren’t able to go in because it’s a private residence. But I had so much fun envisioning Matt and ML’s lives as they lived there with their children.

We also visited Clifton Halbedl’s home, which I remember from childhood. I also had the address for Mamie’s home, and we were able to go inside. A gracious lady who spoke no English invited us in. I have tons of pictures and hope to share them on my blog.

In the story, Matt gets a job at Jefferson High School. This is patterned after Thomas Jefferson High School where my mother went to school. Her name was Mary Louise, as well, named for her grandmother.

If I’ve learned anything from writing this book, I wish I’d probed for more information when my mother and aunt were still alive, but I’m grateful for what I do know.

Brief Blurb on Dreams Deferred –

Father Matt Hall wants to serve the Lord. School teacher Mary Louise Graham needs freedom from her unforgivable past. They never expect to fall in love.

You can find June at:  junefoster.com.

You can find Dreams Deferred at:  https://tinyurl.com/y3g555tz

The Conclusion of “Double Faults and a Wart”

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If you didn’t read the first part of this true-life story from my past, I recommend you read it now. To get the real magic of this story, you need to read the first post — first. It should be on this site. Just scroll down past this post and there it is.

Chapter Two.

Fast forward seven months.

My mother and I were doing some Christmas shopping one day before Christmas (of course).  Here, I do not mean “one day” as the day before Christmas, but “one day” as in “a single day.” We had bought an item at the Harris store in Oak Cliff.  While we waited for the sale to be processed, I let slip a complaint about the wart on my finger. Perhaps I had served a double-fault the day before, or some other wart-induced calamity. But I did complain about my wart.

The saleswoman reached over the counter and took my hand in hers.  She was as old as my mother, so I was not unduly alarmed. I wasn’t even duly alarmed. She turned my hand over in hers, looked at the wart, and began gently to rub it with one of her fingers.  I do not remember which of her fingers she used, nor whether she rubbed in a circular motion or a linear motion. But she rubbed my left index finger, or more accurately, she rubbed the wart on my finger.

This happened rather quickly and she rubbed for no more than a few seconds. And as she rubbed the wart, she said, “I believe it will go away.”

Outside, walking to the car, my mother and I joked about the incident. It was harmless enough.  She seemed like a nice lady, and was not offended by the double-fault-provoking growth.

Being well-read, I had heard of medicine men removing a wart by rubbing it with a seven-year-old rag,  hand-woven of flax and soaked in garlic oil, and afterward burying the rag in the ground during a three-quarter moon and at such a point that the morning shadow of a cedar tree would cover the burial spot.  I found no documentation to indicate that those results lasted any better than the scissor snipping did.

A week later, the wart was gone. Vanished. No special care required. No scissors. No queasy stomach. No wart.  No double-faults.

A year later, the wart was gone. Two years later, the wart was gone. Twenty years later, the wart was still gone.

The saleswoman could have been an out-of-work witch doctor making some money by working the Christmas rush. She may have been a skilled surgeon doing some pro-bono work, or perhaps testing a new procedure on unsuspecting strangers.  I could have been the subject of some undercover testing not approved by the AMA or the NIH or the CIA.

Of course, Harris would not reveal the identity of the sales clerk. Mysteriously, personnel records for part-time Christmas workers for that year were lost, destroyed by a freak fire which burned only a tiny section of their files. (This was, as you know, long before computers captured everything and never lost a file.) Thirteen private-eyes (seven PI’s, one with only one eye) could find no trace of the mystery woman.  And I could find no trace of the wart. So, after years, I abandoned the search.  For either one.

Today, the wart is still gone. The only thing on the pad of my left index finger is a tiny scar—the result of a pair of scissors.

And that’s the story of double faults and a wart.  I was just a couple of years out of college and it happened pretty much as I described it in these two posts. I hope you enjoyed this glimpse into my earlier life, and how shamans (though she did not enter a trance) or grandmothers (or perhaps even an alien) can outperform the medical industry at times.  Leave me a comment and let me know if you think this could be the centerpiece of my memoir.  And thanks for your patience.

James Callan, wart-free ex-tennis player

 

On Double Faults and a Wart: an essay

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Modern medicine is amazing.  Recently, I saw a woman performing a very physical and energetic dance routine, which included an unassisted backflip. What made this amazing was that the woman had an artificial leg.

But is an example of modern-day medical miracles.  Back in the old days, when I was younger (if I say “back”, then of course I was younger), I sought medical help.  I had a wart on the end of my left index finger, right at a place that put it squarely in the way of everything I did. Right on the pad of my fingertip. And of course, the left hand is the ball-tossing hand for a right-handed tennis player.  I’m certain that any double faults I may have committed in my career to that point were a direct and impossible-to-overcome result of that wart.  I hated it.  Ken Rosewall—international tennis champion whose size, build, and indeed his strokes, resembled mine—did not have a wart on the end of his ball-tossing finger. There are some conclusions that could be drawn from this. But, I’ll leave those for others to make.

After putting up with it for more years than I care to think about, I sought medical help.  A prominent doctor (who also happened to be a neighbor) listened to me complain about it, probably more than once, and said, “Come to my office and I’ll get rid of it.”

Well, you know the rest of that story.  I went post-haste.

Now, I must preface these next two paragraphs with the true statement that I have a strong stomach. This is well documented and amply proven during my wife’s first pregnancy, as she was sick and threw up during every meal.  I did not lose weight. (Of course, she didn’t either.)

I visited the doctor’s office, eager to rid myself of this handicap. He had me sit on a table, grabbed a needle, jabbed it into my index finger and proceeded to inject my digit with enough fluid that my finger became twice as big around. Next, he took an electric wood-burning instrument, and attacked the wart. This caused it to turn brown, making it even uglier than it had been.  But I was okay with that.  Whatever liquid he had pumped in, not only fattened my finger but deadened it as well.  I watched with fascination.

Next, he grabbed a pair of scissors and with no preamble, no song or dance, no signing of a release form, no reading a privacy notice, not even a request for insurance information, proceeded to cut the entire pad off my sausage finger. If you ever had someone take a pair of scissors and snip off part of your very own body, then you will understand why I almost passed out.  I turned white, my head became faint, I saw portions of my early life pass before my eyes (without even a tape recorder handy), and I almost fell off the table. The good doctor steadied me and gave me instructions on taking care of the end of my finger. I had to correct the man. I no longer had an end of my finger.  He rephrased and suggested what to do with the stump left behind. And lest I forget that staple of all literature, my stomach roiled.

But, the wart was gone.  Halleluiah!

In time, with the miracle of – not medicine – the human body, I grew a new pad. Without a wart.  Excitement.  And for the next year, it is likely that I never double-faulted again on the tennis court. (Records are sketchy on this, some perhaps burned in a mysterious fire.)

If that were the end of the story, it would never have made the New England Journal of Medicine.

A  year or so later, the wart was back. In exactly the same place. The same size. And as annoying as ever.  No, not as annoying.  Much worse.  I had tasted freedom.  I had had a smooth, wart-free finger.  To say I was unhappy to see this return is to say Paul Bunyan was big.  It doesn’t begin to tell the story. But, I was not going back and test my strong stomach again.  No snipping off the end of my finger again. I would have to live with an occasional double-fault.

The exciting conclusion, with a mysterious twist, will be coming next week.  Stay tuned.  It will be worth it.  And feel free to leave a comment on this first bit on the wart and double faults.  Thanks.

She just kept stabbing.

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Today I’m sending you one brief scene from Political Dirty Trick, A Crystal Moore Suspense, Book #3.

Crystal jerked her hand to the door and tried to yank it shut but not before the knife found her arm, cutting a long gash nearly to her elbow. The woman stepped closer and raised the knife for another slash. Crystal grabbed the door handle and jerked the door closed. It caught the intruder’s arm, smashing it against the frame of the car. The woman let out a scream, but the knife stayed firmly in her hand. Crystal could see hate and determination in the woman’s eyes. The woman pulled on her arm, trying to get it out from between the door and the car body.

Crystal eased the pressure and the woman yanked her arm out. But before Crystal could get the door closed, the woman reached in for another strike. Crystal was ready and managed to get her arm out of the way. Again she slammed the door against the attacker’s arm. The woman screamed in pain.

Crystal’s right hand grabbed the steering wheel to steady herself, landing on the horn, sending a loud blast into the quiet woods. She released the pressure on the door slightly, then tried to yank it closed again.

Now the woman had her leg inside the door. She would not let her arm get smashed again. Crystal pulled. The door dug into the woman’s leg. But Crystal could not close the door.

The woman let out a stream of curses. There wasn’t enough room to get a good swing with the knife. Crystal tried to keep the door from opening wider, but blood now covered her hand and she could barely hold the door. Slowly the attacker pushed her weight against the door, opening it wider. She was getting enough room for a more deadly attack.

Crystal desperately tried to scramble across the seat, away from her attacker, but the center console held her in easy reach. Managing to take her eyes off the knife, she looked for anything to deflect the knife or otherwise stop the attack.

She found nothing.

The woman was muttering, deep in her throat, almost a growl, as she forced the door open, her knife raised over Crystal’s leg.

The roar of a shotgun blast stopped the woman.

Eula stood outside her back door, shotgun leveled on the scene. But, the car was between her and her target. She had fired a warning high over the car. Eula edged to her right angling for a better shot at the woman trying to kill her granddaughter.

The woman looked at the shotgun and instantly turned and ran in among the trees.

In just a few seconds, Eula was around the car, but the woman had vanished into the woods. Eula pointed the ancient shotgun in the direction the attacker had run and fired another round.

“Probably didn’t hit her, but it ought to keep her running.” She walked over to the driver’s side and looked at her granddaughter. “What’s going on?” Then she spotted the blood. “Oh my God. What happened?”

Crystal had straightened herself up and was inserting the key, ready to start the car.

“What are you doing?” Eula yelled.

“She’s got to have a car down the drive someplace. I’m going after her.”

“No you’re not. You’ve got blood all over yourself and more blood pouring out.”

“She’ll get away.”

“Let her go. She’s still got a knife and you don’t. Let’s go take care of your arm and call the Sheriff.” Eula reached in and pulled the keys out of the ignition. “Come on.”

Crystal eased out of the car. Blood covered her left arm, and splotches of red decorated the left side of her blouse and part of her pants. “That crazy woman tried to stab me.”

“Didn’t just try. Let’s get you in the house and see the damage.”

By the time they got inside, Crystal’s adrenaline had slowed, and she began to shake as tears filled her eyes.  Eula wrapped her arms around her granddaughter.

“I couldn’t move. She just kept stabbing, stabbing.”

Eula drew her closer. “It’s alright now. Sorry I didn’t get off a better shot.”

 

Well, Crystal has escaped again – with a little help from her 78-year-old grandmother – and a shotgun. If this didn’t ring true, leave me a comment and tell me what went wrong. This is from Political Dirty Trick, A Crystal Moore Suspense, Book #3.  It’s on Amazon in digital, paperback and audio. Click this link: https://amzn.to/2pIHMqs The hardcover version is at Ingram.

Lovely Night to Die

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Lovely Night to Die is a new thriller novella from Caleb Pirtle III.  If you know his work, you know that Caleb is a terrific storyteller.  And he can pull you into a scene and your heart will be racing.  Here’s a brief … Continue reading →

What Makes a book a good ‘tiger’ book?

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Today’s guest blogger is Elaine Faber, who lives in northern California with her husband and multiple feline companions. She is a member of Sisters in Crime, California Cat Writers, and Northern California Publishers and Authors.  She has two series going, … Continue reading →